Читать книгу The Demon Cycle Books 1-3 and Novellas: The Painted Man, The Desert Spear, The Daylight War plus The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold and Messenger’s Legacy - Peter V. Brett - Страница 28

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The terrain grew steadily rockier as the tiny lumps on the horizon rose higher and higher. Ragen had not exaggerated when he said a hundred Boggin’s Hills could fit in just one mountain, and the range stretched as far as Arlen could see. The air grew cooler as they climbed; strong gusts of wind whipped through the hills. Arlen looked back and saw the whole world spread out before him like a map. He imagined travelling through those lands with only a spear and a Messenger bag.

When they finally caught sight of Fort Miln, Arlen couldn’t believe his eyes. Despite Ragen’s tales, he had still assumed it would be like Tibbet’s Brook, only larger. He nearly fell from the cart as the fortress city rose up before them, looming over the road.

Fort Miln was built into the base of a mountain, overlooking a broad valley. Another mountain, twin to the one Miln abutted, faced the city from across the valley. A circular wall some thirty feet high surrounded the city, though many of the buildings within thrust still even higher into the sky. The closer they got to the city, the more it spread out, the wall going for miles in each direction.

The walls were painted with the largest wards Arlen had ever seen. His eyes followed the invisible lines connecting one ward to another, forming a web that would make the wall impervious to corelings.

But despite the triumph of achievement, the walls disappointed Arlen. The ‘free’ cities weren’t really free at all. Walls that kept the corelings out also kept the people in. At least in Tibbet’s Brook the prison walls were invisible.

‘What keeps wind demons from flying over the wall?’ Arlen asked.

‘The top of the wall is set with wardposts that weave a canopy over the city,’ Ragen said.

Arlen realized he should have figured that out without Ragen’s help. He had more questions, but he kept them to himself, his sharp mind already working on probable solutions.

It was well past high sun when they finally reached the city. Ragen pointed out a column of smoke further up the mountain, miles above the city.

‘The Duke’s Mines,’ he said. ‘It’s a village in itself, larger than your Tibbet’s Brook. They’re not self-sufficient, but that’s how the Duke likes it. Caravans come and go most every week. Food goes up, and salt, metal, and coal come down.’

A lower wall branched out from the main city, running in a broad swath around the valley. Arlen could make out wardposts and the top of neat green rows. ‘The great gardens and the Duke’s orchard,’ Ragen noted.

The gate was open wide as workers came and went, and the guards waved as they approached. They were tall, like Ragen, and wore dented metal helms and old boiled leather over thick woollens. Both carried spears, but they held them more like showpieces than weapons.

‘Ay, Messenger!’ one cried. ‘Welcome back!’

‘Gaims. Woron.’ Ragen nodded at them.

‘Duke expected you days ago,’ Gaims said. ‘We were worried when you didn’t arrive.’

‘Thought the demons got me?’ Ragen laughed. ‘Not a chance! There was a coreling attack in the hamlet I visited on the way back from Angiers. We stayed on a bit to help out.’

‘Picked up a stray while you were there?’ Woron asked with a grin. ‘A little gift for your wife while she waits for you to make her a Mother?’

Ragen scowled, and the guard drew back. ‘I meant no offence,’ he said quickly.

‘Then I suggest you avoid saying things that tend to offend, servant,’ Ragen replied tightly. Woron paled, and nodded quickly.

‘I found him out on the road, actually,’ Ragen said, ruffling Arlen’s hair and grinning as if nothing tense had just passed.

Arlen liked that about Ragen. He was quick to laugh, and held no grudges, but he demanded respect, and let you know where you stood. Arlen wanted to be like that one day.

‘On the road?’ Gaims asked in disbelief.

‘Days from anywhere!’ Ragen cried. ‘The boy can ward better than some Messengers I know.’ Arlen swelled with pride at the compliment.

‘And you, Jongleur?’ Woron asked Keerin. ‘Like your first taste of the naked night?’

Keerin scowled, and the guards laughed. ‘That good, eh?’ Woron asked.

‘Light’s wasting,’ Ragen said. ‘Send word to Mother Jone that we’ll come to the palace after I deliver the rice and stop home for a bath and a decent meal.’ The men saluted and let them pass into the city.

Despite his initial disappointment, the grandeur of Miln soon overwhelmed Arlen. Buildings soared into the air, dwarfing anything he had ever seen before, and cobbles covered the streets instead of hard-packed soil. Corelings couldn’t rise through worked stone, but Arlen couldn’t imagine the effort needed to cut and fit hundreds of thousands of stones.

In Tibbet’s Brook, almost every structure was wood, with foundations of piled stone and roofs of thatch with plates for wards. Here, almost everything was cut stone, and reeked of age. Despite the warded outer walls, every building was warded individually, some in fantastic works of art, and others in simple functionality.

The air in the city was rank, thick with the stench of garbage, dung fires, and sweat. Arlen tried holding his breath, but soon gave up and settled for breathing through his mouth. Keerin, on the other hand, seemed to breathe comfortably for the first time.

Ragen led the way to a marketplace where Arlen saw more people than he had in his entire life. Hundreds of Rusco Hogs called to him from all sides: ‘Buy this!’ ‘Try that!’ ‘A special price, just for you!’ They were all tall; giants compared to the folk of the Brook.

They passed carts of fruits and vegetables the likes of which Arlen had never seen, and so many sellers of clothes that he thought it must be all the Milnese thought about. There were paintings and carvings, too, so intricate he wondered how anyone had time to make them.

Ragen brought them to a merchant on the far end of the market who bore the symbol of a shield on his tent. ‘The Duke’s man,’ Ragen advised as they pulled up to the cart.

‘Ragen!’ the merchant called. ‘What do you have for me today?’

‘Marsh rice,’ Ragen said. ‘Taxes from the Brook to pay for the Duke’s salt.’

‘Been to see Rusco Hog?’ the merchant said more than asked. ‘That crook still robbing the townies blind?’

‘You know Hog?’ Ragen asked.

The merchant laughed. ‘I testified before the Mothers’ Council ten years ago to have his merchant licence pulled, after he tried to pass on a shipment of grain thick with rats,’ he said. ‘He left town soon after, and resurfaced at the ends of the world. Heard the same thing happened in Angiers, which is why he was in Miln to begin with.’

‘Good thing we checked the rice,’ Ragen muttered.

They haggled for some time over the going rates for rice and salt. Finally, the merchant gave in, admitting that Ragen had gotten the better of Hog. He gave the Messenger a jingling pouch of coins to make up the difference.

‘Can Arlen drive the cart from here?’ Keerin asked. Ragen glanced at him and nodded. He tossed a purse of coins to Keerin, who caught it deftly and hopped off the cart.

Ragen shook his head as Keerin disappeared into the crowd. ‘Not the worst Jongleur,’ he said, ‘but he doesn’t have the stones for the road.’ He remounted, and led Arlen through the busy streets. Arlen felt suffocated by the press as they moved down a particularly crowded street.

He noticed some people dressed only in tattered rags despite the chill mountain air.

‘What are they doing?’ Arlen asked, watching them hold empty cups out to passers-by.

‘Begging,’ Ragen said. ‘Not everyone in Miln can afford to buy food.’

‘Can’t we just give them some of ours?’ Arlen asked.

Ragen sighed. ‘It’s not that simple, Arlen,’ he said. ‘The soil here isn’t fertile enough to feed even half the people. We need grain from Fort Rizon, fish from Lakton, fruit and livestock from Angiers. The other cities don’t just give all that away. It goes to those who work a trade and earn the money to pay for it, the Merchants. Merchants hire Servants to do for them, and feed, clothe and house them out of their own purse.’

He gestured at a man wrapped in rough, filthy cloth holding out a cracked wooden bowl to passers-by, who moved to avoid him, refusing eye contact. ‘So unless you’re a Royal or a Holy Man, if you don’t work, you end up like that.’

Arlen nodded as if he understood, but he didn’t really. People ran out of credits at the general store in Tibbet’s Brook all the time, but even Hog didn’t let them starve.

They came to a house, and Ragen signalled Arlen to stop the cart. It was not a large house compared to many Arlen had seen in Miln, but it was still impressive by Tibbet’s Brook standards, made entirely of stone and standing two full storeys.

‘Is this where you live?’ Arlen asked.

Ragen shook his head. He dismounted and went to the door, knocking sharply. A moment later, it was answered by a young woman with long brown hair woven into a tight braid. She was tall and sturdy, like everyone in Miln, and wore a high-necked dress that fell to her ankles and was tight across her bosom. Arlen couldn’t tell if she was pretty. He was about to decide that she was not when she smiled, and her whole face changed.

‘Ragen!’ she cried, throwing her arms around him. ‘You came! Thank the Creator!’

‘Of course I came, Jenya,’ Ragen said. ‘We Messengers take care of our own.’

‘I’m no Messenger,’ Jenya said.

‘You were married to one, and that’s the same. Graig died a Messenger, the guild’s ruling be damned.’

Jenya looked sad, and Ragen changed the subject quickly, striding over to the cart and unloading the remaining stores. ‘I’ve brought you good Marsh rice, salt, meat, and fish,’ he said, carrying the items over and setting them just inside her doorway. Arlen scurried to help.

‘And this,’ Ragen added, pulling the sack of gold and silver he had gotten from Hog out of his belt. He threw in the little pouch from the Duke’s merchant, as well.

Jenya’s eyes widened as she opened it. ‘Oh, Ragen,’ she said, ‘it’s too much. I can’t …’

‘You can and you will,’ Ragen ordered, cutting her off. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

Jenya’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I have no way to thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ve been so scared. Penning for the guild doesn’t cover everything, and without Graig … I thought I might have to go back to begging.’

‘There, there,’ Ragen said, patting her shoulder. ‘My brothers and I will never let that happen. I’ll take you into my own household before I let you fall so far,’ he promised.

‘Oh, Ragen, you would do that?’ she asked.

‘There’s one last thing,’ Ragen said. ‘A gift from Rusco Hog.’ He held up the ring. ‘He wants you to write him, and let him know you got it.’

Jenya’s eyes began to water again, looking at the beautiful ring.

‘Graig was well-loved,’ Ragen said, slipping the ring onto her finger. ‘Let this ring be a symbol of his memory. The food and money should last your family a good long while. Perhaps, in that time, you’ll even find another husband and become a Mother. But if things ever grow so dark that you feel you must sell that ring, you come to me first, you understand?’

Jenya nodded, but her eyes were down, still dripping as she caressed the ring.

‘Promise me,’ Ragen ordered.

‘I promise,’ Jenya said.

Ragen nodded, hugging her one last time. ‘I’ll look in on you when I can,’ he said. She was still crying as they left. Arlen stared back at her as they went.

‘You look confused,’ Ragen said.

‘I guess I am,’ Arlen agreed.

‘Jenya’s family were Beggars,’ Ragen explained. ‘Her father is blind and her mother sickly. They had the fortune, though, to have a healthy, attractive daughter. She brought herself and her parents up two classes when she married Graig. He took the three of them into his home, and though he never had the choicest routes, he made enough for them to get by and be happy.’

He shook his head. ‘Now, though, she has rent to pay and three mouths to feed on her own. She can’t stray far from home, either, because her parents can’t do for themselves.’

‘It’s good of you to help her,’ Arlen said, feeling a little better. ‘She was pretty when she smiled.’

‘You can’t help everyone, Arlen,’ Ragen said, ‘but you should make every effort to help those you can.’ Arlen nodded.

They wound their way up a hill until they reached a large manse. A gated wall six feet high surrounded the sprawling property, and the great house itself was three storeys high and had dozens of windows, all reflecting light from their glass. It was bigger than the great hall on Boggin’s Hill, and that could hold everyone in Tibbet’s Brook for the solstice feast. The manse and the wall around it were painted with brightly coloured wards. Such a magnificent place, Arlen decided, must be the home of the Duke.

‘My mam had a cup of warded glass, hard as steel,’ he said, looking up at the windows as a thin man came scurrying up from inside the grounds to open the gate. ‘She kept it hidden, but sometimes she took it out when company came, to show how it glittered.’ They rode past a garden untouched by coreling mischief, where several hands were digging vegetables.

‘This is one of the only manses in Miln with all glass windows,’ Ragen said proudly. ‘I’d pay a lot to ward them not to break.’

‘I know the trick,’ Arlen said, ‘but you need a coreling to touch the glass to charge it.’

Ragen chuckled and shook his head. ‘Maybe not, then.’

There were smaller buildings on the grounds as well, stone huts with smoking chimneys and people going to and fro, like a tiny village. Dirty children scampered about, and women kept watch over them while tending their chores. They rode to the stables, and a groom was there in a second to take Nighteye’s reins. He bowed and scraped, as if Ragen were a king in a story.

‘I thought we were going to stop by your house before visiting the duke,’ Arlen asked.

Ragen laughed. ‘This is my house, Arlen! Do you think I risk the open road for nothing?’

Arlen looked back at the house, his eyes bulging. ‘This is all yours?’ he asked.

‘All of it,’ Ragen confirmed. ‘Dukes are free with their coin to those who stare down corelings.’

‘But Graig’s house was so small,’ Arlen protested.

‘Graig was a good man,’ Ragen said, ‘but he was never more than a passable Messenger. He was content to make a run to Tibbet’s Brook each year, and shuttle to the local hamlets in between. A man like that might support his family, but no more. The only reason there was so much profit for Jenya was that I paid for the extra goods I sold Hog out of my own purse. Graig used to have to borrow from the guild, and they took a hard cut.’

A tall man opened the door to the house with a bow. He was stone-faced, wearing a faded blue coat of dyed wool. His face and clothes were clean, a sharp contrast to those in the yard. As soon as they entered, a boy not much older than Arlen sprang to his feet. He ran to a bell rope at the base of a broad, marble stair, and chimes rang through the house.

‘I see your luck has held one more time,’ a woman called a moment later. She had dark hair and piercing blue eyes. She wore a deep blue gown, finer than anything Arlen had ever seen, and her wrists and throat sparkled with jewels. Her smile was cold as she regarded them from the marble balcony above the foyer. Arlen had never seen a woman so beautiful or graceful.

‘My wife, Elissa,’ Ragen advised quietly. ‘A reason to return … and a reason to leave.’ Arlen was unsure if he was joking. The woman did not seem pleased to see them.

‘One of these times, the corelings will have you,’ Elissa said as she descended the stairs, ‘and I will finally be free to wed my young lover.’

‘Never happen,’ Ragen said with a smile, drawing her close for a kiss. Turning to Arlen, he explained, ‘Elissa dreams of the day when she will inherit my fortune. I guard against the corelings as much to spite her as to protect myself.’

Elissa laughed, and Arlen relaxed. ‘Who is this?’ she asked. ‘A stray to save you the work of filling my belly with a child of our own?’

‘The only work is melting your frozen petticoats, my dear,’ Ragen shot back. ‘May I present Arlen, of Tibbet’s Brook. I met him on the road.’

‘On the road?’ Elissa asked. ‘He’s just a child!’

‘I’m not a child!’ Arlen shouted, then immediately felt foolish. Ragen eyed him wryly, and he dropped his gaze.

Elissa gave no sign that she heard the outburst. ‘Doff your armour and find the bath,’ she ordered her husband, ‘you smell like sweat and rust. I’ll see to our guest.’

As Ragen left, Elissa called a servant to prepare Arlen a snack. Ragen seemed to have more servants than there were people in Tibbet’s Brook. They cut him slices of cold ham and a thick crust of bread, with clotted cream and milk to wash it down. Elissa watched him eat, but Arlen couldn’t think of anything to say, and kept his attention on his plate.

As he was finishing the cream, a serving woman in a dress of the same blue as the men’s jackets entered and bowed to Elissa. ‘Master Ragen awaits you upstairs,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Mother,’ Elissa replied. Her face took on a strange cast for a moment, as she absently ran her fingers over her stomach. Then she smiled and looked at Arlen. ‘Take our guest to the bath,’ she ordered, ‘and don’t let him up for air until you can tell what colour his skin is.’ She laughed and swept out of the room.

Arlen, used to standing in a trough and dumping cold water over himself, was out of sorts at the sight of Ragen’s deep stone tub. He waited as the serving woman, Margrit, poured a kettle of boiling water in to take the chill from his soak. She was tall, like everyone in Miln, with kind eyes and honey-coloured hair showing just a hint of grey peeking from underneath her bonnet. She turned her back while Arlen undressed and got into the tub. She gasped as she saw the stitched wounds on his back, and quickly moved to inspect them.

‘Ow!’ Arlen shouted as she pinched the uppermost wound.

‘Don’t be such a baby,’ she scolded, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together and sniffing at them. Arlen bit down as she repeated the process down his back. ‘You’re luckier than you know,’ she said at last. ‘When Ragen told me you were hurt, I thought it must be just a scratch, but this …’ She tsked at him. ‘Didn’t your mother teach you not to be outside at night?’

Arlen’s retort died on a sniffle. He bit his lip, determined not to cry. Margrit noticed, and immediately softened her tone. ‘These are healing well,’ she said of his wounds. She took a cake of soap and began to gently wash them. Arlen gritted his teeth. ‘When you’re done in the bath, I’ll prepare a poultice and fresh bandages for you.’

Arlen nodded. ‘Are you Elissa’s mother?’ he asked.

The woman laughed. ‘Creator, boy, whatever gave you that idea?’

‘She called you mother,’ Arlen said.

‘Because I am,’ Margrit said proudly. ‘Two sons and three daughters, one of them soon to be a Mother herself.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Poor Elissa, all her wealth, and still a Daughter, and her on the dark side of thirty! It breaks the heart.’

‘Is being a mam so important?’ Arlen asked.

The woman regarded him as if he had asked if air were important. ‘What could be more important than motherhood?’ she asked. ‘It’s every woman’s duty to produce children to keep the city strong. That’s why Mothers get the best rations and first pick of the morning market. It’s why all of the Duke’s councillors are Mothers. Men are good for breaking and building, but politics and papers are best left to women who’ve been to the Mothers’ School. Why, it’s Mothers that vote to choose a new duke when the old one passes!’

‘Then why ent Elissa one?’ Arlen asked.

‘It’s not for lack of trying,’ Margrit admitted. ‘I’ll wager she’s at it right now. Six weeks on the road will make any man a bull, and I brewed fertility tea and left it on her nightstand. Maybe it will help, though any fool knows the best time to make a baby is just before dawn.’

‘Then why haven’t they made one?’ Arlen asked. He knew making babies had something to do with the games Renna and Beni had wanted to play, but he was still vague on the process.

‘Only the Creator knows,’ Margrit said. ‘Elissa might be barren, or it might be Ragen, though that would be a shame. There’s a shortage of good men like him. Miln needs his sons.’

She sighed. ‘Elissa’s lucky he hasn’t left her, or gotten a child on one of the servant girls. Creator knows, they’re willing.’

‘He would leave his wife?’ Arlen was aghast.

‘Don’t look so surprised, boy,’ Margit said. ‘Men need heirs, and they’ll get them any way they can. Duke Euchor is on his third wife, and still only daughters to show for it!’

She shook her head. ‘Not Ragen, though. They fight like corelings sometimes, but he loves Elissa like the sun itself. He’d never leave. Nor Elissa, despite what she’s given up.’

‘Given up?’ Arlen asked.

‘She was a Noble, you know,’ Margrit said. ‘Her mother is on the Duke’s Council. Elissa could have served the Duke, too, if she’d married another Noble and got with child. But she married down to be with Ragen, against her mother’s wishes. They haven’t spoken since. Elissa’s Merchant now, if well moneyed. Denied the Mothers’ School, she’ll never hold any position in the city, much less one in the Duke’s service.’

Arlen was quiet while Margrit rinsed out his wounds and collected his clothes off the tiles. She tsked as she inspected the rips and stains. ‘I’ll mend these as best I can while you soak,’ she promised, and left him to his bath. While she was gone, Arlen tried to make sense of everything she had told him, but there was too much he didn’t understand.

Margrit reminded Arlen a little of Catrin Hog, Rusco’s daughter. ‘She’d tell you every secret in the world, if it let her hear her own voice a moment longer,’ Silvy used to say.

The woman returned later with fresh, if ill-fitting clothes. She bandaged his wounds and helped him dress, despite his protests. He had to roll up the tunic sleeves to find his hands, and cuff his breeches to keep from tripping, but Arlen felt clean for the first time in weeks.

He shared an early supper with Ragen and Elissa. Ragen had trimmed his beard, tied back his hair, and donned a fine white shirt with a deep blue suede jacket and breeches.

A pig had been slaughtered on Ragen’s arrival, and the table was soon laden with pork chops, ribs, rashers of bacon, and succulent sausage. Flagons of chilled ale and clear, cold water were served. Elissa frowned when Ragen signalled a servant to pour Arlen an ale, but she said nothing. She sipped wine from a glass so delicate Arlen was afraid her slender fingers would break it. There was crusty bread, whiter than he had ever seen, and bowls of boiled turnips and potatoes, thick with butter.

As he looked out over the food, his mouth watering, Arlen couldn’t help but remember people out in the city begging for something to eat. Still, his hunger soon overcame his guilt, and he sampled everything, filling his plate again and again.

‘Creator, where are you putting it all?’ Elissa asked, clapping her hands in amusement as she watched Arlen clean another plate. ‘Is there a chasm in your belly?’

‘Ignore her, Arlen,’ Ragen advised. ‘Women will fuss all day in the kitchen, yet fear to take more than a nibble, lest they seem indelicate. Men know better how to appreciate a meal.’

‘He’s right, you know,’ Elissa said with a roll of her eyes. ‘Women can hardly appreciate the subtleties of life as men do.’ Ragen started and spilled his ale, and Arlen realized that she had kicked him under the table. Arlen decided he liked her.

After supper a page appeared, wearing a grey tabard with the Duke’s shield emblazoned on the front. He reminded Ragen of his appointment and the Messenger sighed, but assured the page they would be along directly.

‘Arlen is hardly dressed to meet the Duke,’ Elissa fussed. ‘One does not go before His Grace looking like a Beggar.’

‘There’s nothing for it, love,’ Ragen replied. ‘We have only a few hours before sunset. We can hardly have a tailor come in time.’

Elissa refused to accept that. She stared at the boy for a long moment, then snapped her fingers, striding out of the room. She returned soon after with a blue doublet and a pair of polished leather boots.

‘One of our pages is near your age,’ she told Arlen as she helped him into the jacket and boots. The sleeves of the doublet were short, and the boots pinched his feet, but Lady Elissa seemed satisfied. She ran a comb through his hair and stepped back.

‘Good enough,’ she said with a smile. ‘Mind your manners before the Duke, Arlen,’ she counselled. Arlen, feeling awkward in the ill-fitting clothes, smiled and nodded.

The Duke’s Keep was a warded fortress within the warded fortress of Miln. The outer wall was fitted stone, over twenty feet high, heavily warded and patrolled by armoured spearmen. They rode through the gate into a wide courtyard, which circled the palace. Dwarfing Ragen’s manse, the palace had four floors, and towers that reached twice that high. Broad, sharp wards marked every stone. The windows glittered with glass.

Men in armour patrolled the yard, and pages in the Duke’s colours scurried to and fro. A hundred men sweated out in the yard; carpenters, masons, blacksmiths and butchers. Arlen saw grain stores and livestock, even broad gardens far larger than Ragen’s. It seemed to Arlen that if he should close the gate, the Duke could last forever in his keep.

The noise and smell of the yard died as the heavy doors of the palace closed behind them. The entrance hall had a wide running carpet, and tapestries on the cool stone walls. Save for a few guards, there were no men to be seen. Dozens of women moved about instead, their wide skirts swishing as they went about their business. Some were drawing figures on slates, while others penned the results in heavy books. A few, more richly dressed than the rest, strolled about imperiously, watching the others at their work.

‘The Duke is in the audience chamber,’ one of them advised. ‘He has been expecting you for some time.’

A long line of people waited outside the Duke’s audience chamber. It was mostly women holding quills and sheaves of paper, but there were a few well-dressed men as well.

‘Lesser petitioners,’ Ragen advised, ‘all hoping for a minute of the Duke’s time before the Evening Bell rings and they’re escorted out.’

The lesser petitioners seemed acutely aware that there was little daylight left, and openly argued amongst themselves as to who ought to go next. But chatter died as they caught sight of Ragen. As the Messenger walked past, bypassing the line completely, all the petitioners fell silent, then followed in his wake like dogs eager for a feeding. They followed right up to the entranceway where a glare from the guards brought them up short. They crowded around the entrance to listen as Ragen and Arlen entered.

Arlen felt dwarfed by the audience chamber of Duke Euchor of Miln. The domed ceiling of the room was storeys high, and ensconced torches rested on the great columns surrounding Euchor’s throne. Each column had wards carved into the marble.

‘Greater petitioners,’ Ragen said quietly, indicating the men and women moving about the room. ‘They tend to cluster.’ He nodded to a large group of men standing close to the door. ‘Merchant princes,’ he said. ‘Spreading gold around for the right to stand around the palace, sniffing for news, or a Noble to marry off their daughters to.’

‘There,’ he nodded towards a cluster of old women standing ahead of the Merchants, ‘the Council of Mothers, waiting to give Euchor his day’s reports.’

Closer to the throne was a group of sandaled men in plain brown robes, standing with quiet dignity. A few spoke in murmurs, as others took down their every word. ‘Every court needs its Holy Men,’ Ragen explained.

He pointed at last to a swarm of richly dressed people buzzing about the Duke, attended by an army of servants laden with trays of food and drink. ‘Royals,’ Ragen said. ‘The Duke’s nephews and cousins and second cousins thrice removed, all clamouring for his ear and dreaming of what will happen if Euchor vacates his throne without an heir. The Duke hates them.’

‘Why doesn’t he send them away?’ Arlen asked.

‘Because they’re Royals,’ Ragen said, as if that explained everything.

They were halfway to the Duke’s throne when a tall woman moved to intercept them. Her hair was kept back in a cloth wrap, and her face was pinched and lined with wrinkles so deep it looked as if wards were carved into her cheeks. She moved with arch dignity, but a little wattle of flesh beneath her chin shook of its own accord. She had Selia’s air about her; a woman accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed without question. She looked down at Arlen and sniffed as if she had smelled a dung heap. Her gaze snapped up at Ragen.

‘Euchor’s chamberlain, Jone,’ Ragen muttered while they were still out of earshot. ‘Mother, Royal, and an eighth breed of coreling. Don’t stop walking unless I do, or she’ll have you waiting in the stables while I see the Duke.’

‘Your page will have to wait in the hall, Messenger,’ Jone said, stepping in front of them.

‘He’s not my page,’ Ragen said, continuing forward. Arlen kept pace, and the chamberlain was forced to sacrifice her dignity to scurry out of the way.

‘His Grace doesn’t have time for every stray off the street, Ragen!’ she hissed, hurrying to keep pace with the Messenger. ‘Who is he?’

Ragen stopped, and Arlen stopped with him. He turned and glared at the woman, leaning in. Mother Jone might have been tall, but Ragen was taller, and he outweighed her thrice over. The sheer menace of his presence shrank her back involuntarily.

‘He is who I have chosen to bring,’ he said through his teeth. He thrust a satchel filled with letters at her, and Jone took it reflexively. As she did, the Merchants and Mothers’ Council swarmed her, along with the Tenders’ acolytes.

The Royals noted the movement, and made comments or gestures to those next to them. Suddenly, half their entourage broke away, and Arlen realized those were just well dressed servants. The Royals acted as if nothing of note was happening, but their servants shoved as hard as any to get close to that satchel.

Jone passed the letters on to a servant of her own and hurried towards the throne to announce Ragen, though she needn’t have bothered. Ragen’s entrance had caused enough of a stir that the man could not have failed to note him. Euchor was watching as they approached.

The Duke was a heavyset man in his late fifties, with salt and pepper hair and a thick beard. He wore a green tunic, freshly stained with grease from his fingers, but richly embroidered with gold thread, and a fur-lined cloak. His fingers glittered with rings, and about his brow he wore a circlet of gold.

‘At last, you deign to grace us with your presence,’ the Duke called out, though it seemed he was speaking more to the rest of the room than to Ragen. Indeed, the observation had the Royals nodding and murmuring amongst themselves, and caused several heads to pop up from the cluster around the mail. ‘Was my business not pressing enough?’ he asked.

Ragen advanced to the dais, meeting the Duke’s gaze with a stony one of his own. ‘Forty-five days from here to Angiers and back by way of Tibbet’s Brook!’ he said loudly. ‘Thirty and seven nights slept outside, while corelings slashed at my wards!’ He never took his eyes from the Duke, but Arlen knew he too was speaking to the room. Most of those assembled blanched and shuddered at his words.

‘Six weeks gone from my home, Your Grace,’ Ragen said, lowering his voice by half, but still carrying it to all ears. ‘Do you begrudge me a bath and a meal with my wife?’

The Duke hesitated, his eyes flicking about the court. Finally, he gave a great booming laugh. ‘Of course not!’ he called. ‘An offended duke can make a man’s life difficult, but not half so much as an offended wife!’

The tension shattered as the court broke into laughter. ‘I would speak to my Messenger alone!’ the Duke commanded, once the laughter faded. There were grumbles from those eager for news, but Jone signalled her servant to leave with the letters, and that took most of the court with her. The Royals lingered a moment, until Jone cracked her hands together. The report made them jump, and they filed out as quickly as dignity would allow.

‘Stay,’ Ragen murmured to Arlen, stopping a respectful distance from the throne. Jone signalled the guards, who pulled the heavy doors closed, remaining inside. Unlike the men at the gate, these looked alert and professional. Jone moved to stand beside her lord.

‘Don’t ever do that before my court again!’ Euchor growled when the rest were gone.

The Messenger gave a slight bow to acknowledge the command, but it looked insincere, even to Arlen. The boy was in awe. Ragen was utterly fearless.

‘There is news from the Brook, Your Grace,’ Ragen began.

‘The Brook?!’ Euchor burst out. ‘What do I care about the Brook? What word from Rhinebeck?’

‘They’ve had a rough winter without the salt,’ Ragen went on as if the Duke had not spoken. ‘And there was an attack …’

‘Night, Ragen!’ Euchor barked. ‘Rhinebeck’s answer could affect all Miln for years to come, so spare me birth lists and harvest counts of some miserable little backwater!’

Arlen gasped and drew protectively behind Ragen, who gripped his arm reassuringly.

Euchor pressed the attack. ‘Did they discover gold in Tibbet’s Brook?’ he demanded.

‘No, my lord,’ Ragen replied, ‘but …’

‘Did Sunny Pasture open a coal mine?’ Euchor cut him off.

‘No, my lord.’

‘Did they rediscover the lost combat wards?’

Ragen shook his head, ‘Of course not …’

‘Did you even haul back enough rice to bring me profit to cover the cost of your services to go there and back?’ Euchor asked.

‘No,’ Ragen scowled.

‘Good,’ Euchor said, rubbing his hands as if to remove the dust from them. ‘Then we need not concern ourselves with Tibbet’s Brook for another year and a half.’

‘A year and a half is too long,’ Ragen dared to persist. ‘The folk need—’

‘Go for free, then,’ the Duke cut him off, ‘so I can afford it.’

When Ragen didn’t immediately answer, Euchor smiled widely, knowing he had won the exchange. ‘What word from Angiers?’ he demanded.

‘I have a letter from Duke Rhinebeck,’ Ragen sighed, reaching into his coat. He drew forth a slim tube, sealed with wax, but the Duke waved at him impatiently.

‘Just tell me, Ragen! Yes or no?’

Ragen’s eyes narrowed. ‘No, my lord,’ he said. ‘His answer is no. The last two shipments were lost, along with all but a handful of the men. Duke Rhinebeck cannot afford to send another. His men can only log so fast, and he needs the timber more than he needs salt.’

The Duke’s face reddened, and Arlen thought it might burst. ‘Damn it, Ragen!’ he shouted, slamming down his fist. ‘I need that wood!’

‘His Grace has decided that he needs it more for the rebuilding of Riverbridge,’ Ragen said calmly, ‘on the south side of the Dividing River.’

Duke Euchor hissed, and his eyes took on a murderous gleam.

‘This is the work of Rhinebeck’s first minister,’ Jone advised. ‘Janson’s been trying to get Rhinebeck a cut of the bridge tolls for years.’

‘And why settle for a cut when you can have all?’ Euchor agreed. ‘What did you say I would do when you gave me this news?’

Ragen shrugged. ‘It’s not the place of a Messenger to conjecture. What would you have had me say?’

‘That people in wooden fortresses shouldn’t set fires in other men’s yards,’ Euchor growled. ‘I don’t need to remind you, Ragen, how important that wood is to Miln. Our supply of coal dwindles, and without fuel, all the ore in the mines is useless, and half the city will freeze! I’ll torch his new Riverbridge myself before it comes to that!’

Ragen bowed in acknowledgement of the fact. ‘Duke Rhinebeck knows this,’ he said. ‘He empowered me to make a counter-offer.’

‘And that is?’ Euchor asked, raising an eyebrow.

‘Materials to rebuild Riverbridge, and half the tolls,’ Jone guessed before Ragen could open his mouth. She squinted at the Messenger, ‘And Riverbridge stays on the Angierian side of the Dividing.’

Ragen nodded.

‘Night!’ Euchor swore. ‘Creator, Ragen, whose side are you on?’

‘I am a Messenger,’ Ragen replied proudly. ‘I take no sides, I simply report what I have been told.’

Duke Euchor surged to his feet. ‘Then tell me what in the dark of night I pay you for!’ he demanded.

Ragen tilted his head. ‘Would you prefer to go in person, Your Grace?’ he asked mildly.

The Duke paled at that, and did not reply. Arlen could feel the power of Ragen’s simple comment. If possible, his desire to become a Messenger strengthened further.

The Duke finally nodded in resignation. ‘I will think on this,’ he said at last. ‘The hour grows late. You are dismissed.’

‘There is one more thing, my lord,’ Ragen added, beckoning Arlen to come forward, but Jone signalled the guards to open the doors, and the greater petitioners swarmed back into the room. The Duke’s attention was already turned away from the Messenger.

Ragen intercepted Jone as she left Euchor’s side. ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘about the boy …’

‘I’m very busy, Messenger,’ Jone sniffed. ‘Perhaps you should “choose” to bring him some time when I am less so.’ She swept away from them with her head thrown back.

One of the Merchants approached them. He was a bear-like man with only one eye, his other socket a gnarl of scarred flesh. On his breast was a symbol, a man on horseback with spear and satchel. ‘It’s good to see you safe, Ragen,’ the man said. ‘You’ll be by the guild in the morning to give your report?’

‘Guildmaster Malcum,’ Ragen said, bowing. ‘I’m glad to see you. I encountered this boy, Arlen, on the road …’

‘Between cities?’ the guildmaster asked in surprise. ‘You should know better, boy!’

‘Several days between cities,’ Ragen clarified. ‘The boy wards better than many Messengers.’ Malcum arched his one eyebrow at that.

‘He wants to be a Messenger,’ Ragen pressed.

‘You could not ask for a more honourable career,’ Malcum told Arlen.

‘He has no one in Miln,’ Ragen said, ‘I thought he might apprentice with the guild …’

‘Now, Ragen,’ Malcum said, ‘you know as well as any that we only apprentice registered Warders. Try Guildmaster Vincin.’

‘The boy can already ward,’ Ragen argued, though his tone was more respectful than it had been with Duke Euchor. Guildmaster Malcum was even larger than Ragen, and didn’t look like he could be intimidated by talk of nights outside.

‘Then he shouldn’t have any trouble getting the Warder’s guild to register him,’ Malcum said, turning away. ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he called over his shoulder.

Ragen looked around, spotting another man in the cluster of Merchants. ‘Lift your feet, Arlen,’ he growled, striding across the room. ‘Guildmaster Vincin!’ he called as he walked.

The man looked up at their approach, and moved away from his fellows to greet them. He bowed to Ragen, but it was a bow of respect, not deference. Vincin had an oily black goatee, and hair slicked straight back. Rings glittered on his chubby fingers. The symbol on his breast was a keyward, a ward that served as foundation to all the other wards in a web.

‘What can I do for you, Ragen?’ the guildmaster asked.

‘This boy, Arlen, is from Tibbet’s Brook,’ Ragen said, gesturing to Arlen. ‘An orphan from a coreling attack, he has no family in Miln, but he wishes to apprentice as a Messenger.’

‘That’s all very well, Ragen, but what’s it to do with me?’ Vincin asked, never more than glancing Arlen’s way.

‘Malcum won’t take him unless he’s registered to ward,’ Ragen said.

‘Well, that is a problem,’ Vincin agreed.

‘The boy can already ward,’ Ragen said. ‘If you could see your way to …’

Vincin was already shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry, Ragen, but you’re not about to convince me that some backwater bumpkin can ward well enough for me to register him.’

‘The boy’s wards cut the arm off a rock demon,’ Ragen said.

Vincin laughed. ‘Unless you have the arm with you, Ragen, you can save that tale for the Jongleurs.’

‘Could you find him an apprenticeship, then?’ the Messenger asked.

‘Can he pay the apprenticeship fee?’ Vincin asked.

‘He’s an orphan off the road,’ Ragen protested.

‘Perhaps I can find a Warder to take him on as a Servant,’ the guildmaster offered.

Ragen scowled. ‘Thanks all the same,’ he said, ushering Arlen away.

They hurried back to Ragen’s manse, the sun fast setting. Arlen watched as the busy streets of Miln emptied, people carefully checking wards and barring their doors. Even with cobbled streets and thick, warded walls, everyone still locked themselves up at night.

‘I can’t believe you talked to the Duke like that,’ Arlen said as they went.

Ragen chuckled. ‘First rule of being a Messenger, Arlen,’ he said. ‘Merchants and Royals may pay your fee, but they’ll walk all over you, if you let them. You need to act like a king in their presence, and never forget who it is risking their life.’

‘It worked with Euchor,’ Arlen agreed.

Ragen scowled at the name. ‘Selfish pig,’ he spat. ‘He doesn’t care about anything but his own pockets.’

‘It’s okay,’ Arlen said. ‘The Brook survived without salt last fall. They can do it again.’

‘Perhaps,’ Ragen conceded, ‘but they shouldn’t have to. And you! A good duke would have asked why I brought a boy with me into his chamber. A good duke would have made you a ward of the throne, so you didn’t wind up begging on the street. And Malcum was no better! Would it have cored him to test your skill? And Vincin! If you’d had the ripping fee, that greedy bastard would have had a master to apprentice you by sunset! Servant, he says!’

‘Ent an apprentice a servant?’ Arlen asked.

‘Not in the slightest,’ Ragen said. ‘Apprentices are Merchant class. They master a trade and then go into business for themselves, or with another master. Servants will never be anything but, unless they marry up, and I’ll be damned before I let them turn you into one.’

He lapsed into silence, and Arlen, though he was still confused, thought it best not to press him further.

It was full dark not long after they crossed Ragen’s wards, and Margrit showed Arlen to a guest room that was half the size of Jeph’s entire house. At the centre was a bed so high that Arlen had to hop to get in, and having never slept on anything but the ground or a hard straw pallet, he was shocked when he sank into the soft mattress.

He drifted off to slumber quickly, but awoke soon after at the sound of raised voices. He slipped from the bed and left his room, following the sound. The halls of the great manse were empty, the servants having retired for the night. Arlen went to the top of the stairs, the voices becoming clearer. It was Ragen and Elissa.

‘… taking him in, and that’s final,’ he heard Elissa say. ‘Messengering’s no job for a boy anyway!’

‘It’s what he wants,’ Ragen insisted.

Elissa snorted. ‘Pawning Arlen off on someone else won’t alleviate your guilt over bringing him to Miln when you should have taken him home.’

‘Demon dung,’ Ragen snapped. ‘You just want someone to mother day and night.’

‘Don’t you dare turn this back on me!’ Elissa hissed. ‘When you decided not to take Arlen back to Tibbet’s Brook, you took responsibility for him! It’s time to own up to that and stop looking for someone else to care for him.’

Arlen strained to hear, but there was no response from Ragen for some time. He wanted to go down and barge into the conversation. He knew Elissa meant well, but he was growing tired of adults planning out his life for him.

‘Fine,’ Ragen said at last. ‘What if I send him to Cob? He won’t encourage the boy to be a Messenger. I’ll put up the full fee, and we can visit the shop regularly to keep an eye on him.’

‘I think that’s a great idea,’ Elissa agreed, the peevishness gone from her voice. ‘But there’s no reason Arlen can’t stay here, instead of on a hard bench in some cluttered workshop.’

‘Apprenticeships aren’t meant to be comfortable,’ Ragen said. ‘He’ll need to be there from dawn till dusk if he’s to master wardcraft, and if he follows through with his plans to messenger, he’ll need all the training he can get.’

‘Fine,’ Elissa huffed, but her voice softened a moment later. ‘Now come put a baby in my belly,’ she husked.

Arlen hurried back to his room.

As always, Arlen’s eyes opened before dawn, but for a moment he thought he was still asleep, drifting on a cloud. Then he remembered where he was and stretched out, feeling the delicious softness of the feathers stuffed into the mattress and pillow, and the warmth of the thick quilt. The fire in the room’s hearth had burned down to embers.

The temptation to stay abed was strong, but his bladder helped force him from the soft embrace. He slipped to the cold floor and fetched the pots from under the bed, as Margrit had instructed him. He made his water in one, and waste in the other, leaving them by the door to be collected for use in the gardens. The soil in Miln was stony, and its people wasted nothing.

Arlen went to the window. He had stared at it until his eyes drooped the night before, but the glass still fascinated him. It looked like nothing at all, but was hard and unyielding to the touch, like a wardnet. He traced a finger along the glass, making a line in the morning condensation. Remembering the wards from Ragen’s portable circle, he turned the line into one of the symbols. He traced several more, breathing on the glass to clear his work and start anew.

When he finished, he pulled on his clothes and went downstairs, finding Ragen sipping tea by a window, watching the sun rise over the mountains.

‘You’re up early,’ Ragen noted with a smile. ‘You’ll be a Messenger yet,’ he said, and Arlen swelled with pride.

‘Today I’m going to introduce you to a friend of mine,’ Ragen said. ‘A Warder. He taught me when I was your age, and he’s in need of an apprentice.’

‘Couldn’t I just apprentice to you?’ Arlen asked hopefully. ‘I’ll work hard.’

Ragen chuckled. ‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said, ‘but I’m a poor teacher, and spend more time out of town than in. You can learn a lot from Cob. He was a Messenger before I was even born.’

Arlen brightened at this. ‘When can I meet him?’ he asked.

‘The sun’s up,’ Ragen replied. ‘Nothing stopping us from going right after breakfast.’

Soon after, Elissa joined them in the dining room. Ragen’s servants set a grand table, with bacon and ham and bread smeared with honey, eggs and potatoes and big baked apples. Arlen wolfed the meal down, eager to be out in the city. When he finished, he sat staring at Ragen as he ate. Ragen ignored him, eating with maddening slowness as Arlen fidgeted.

Finally, the Messenger put down his fork and wiped his mouth. ‘Oh, very well,’ he said, rising. ‘We can go.’ Arlen beamed and jumped from his seat.

‘Not so fast,’ Elissa called, stopping both men short. Arlen was unprepared for the chord the words struck in him, an echo of his mother, and bit back a rush of emotion.

‘You’re not going anywhere until the tailor comes for Arlen’s measurements,’ she said.

‘What for?’ Arlen asked. ‘Margrit cleaned my clothes and sewed up all the rips.’

‘I appreciate the sentiment, love,’ Ragen said in Arlen’s defence, ‘but there’s hardly a rush for new clothes now that the interview with the Duke is past.’

‘This isn’t open to debate,’ Elissa informed them, drawing herself up. ‘I won’t have a guest in our house walking around looking like a pauper.’

The Messenger looked at the set of his wife’s brow, and sighed. ‘Let it go, Arlen,’ he advised quietly. ‘We’re not going anywhere until she’s satisfied.’

The tailor arrived soon after, a small man with nimble fingers who inspected every inch of Arlen with his knotted strings, carefully marking the information with chalk on a slate. When he was finished, he had a rather animated conversation with Lady Elissa, bowed, and left.

Elissa glided over to Arlen, bending to face him. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ she asked, straightening his shirt and brushing the hair from his face. ‘Now you can run along with Ragen to meet Master Cob.’ She caressed his cheek, her hand cool and soft, and for a moment he leaned into the familiar touch, but then pulled back sharply, his eyes wide.

Ragen caught the look, and noted the wounded expression on his wife’s face as Arlen backed slowly away from her as if she were a demon.

‘I think you hurt Elissa’s feelings back there, Arlen,’ Ragen said as they left his grounds.

‘She’s not my mam,’ Arlen said, suppressing his guilt.

‘Do you miss her?’ Ragen asked. ‘Your mother, I mean.’

‘Yes,’ Arlen answered quietly.

Ragen nodded, and said no more, for which Arlen was thankful. They walked on in silence, and the strangeness of Miln quickly took his mind off the incident. The smell of the dung carts was everywhere, as collectors went from building to building, gathering the night’s waste.

‘Gah!’ Arlen said, holding his nose. ‘The whole city smells worse than a barn stall! How do you stand it?’

‘It’s mostly just in the morning, as the collectors go by,’ Ragen replied. ‘You get used to it. We had sewers once, tunnels that ran under every home, carrying the waste away, but they were sealed centuries ago, when the corelings used them to get into the city.’

‘Couldn’t you just dig privy pits?’ Arlen asked.

‘Milnese soil is stony,’ Ragen said. ‘Those who don’t have private gardens to fertilize are required to put their waste out for collection to use in the Duke’s Gardens. It’s the law.’

‘It’s a smelly law,’ Arlen said.

Ragen laughed. ‘Maybe,’ he replied. ‘But it keeps us fed, and drives the economy. The collection guildmaster’s manse makes mine look like a hovel.’

‘I’m sure yours smells better,’ Arlen said, and Ragen laughed again.

At last they turned a corner and came to a small but sturdy shop, with wards delicately etched around the windows and into the lintel and jamb of the door. Arlen could appreciate the detail of those wards. Whoever made them had a skilled hand.

They entered to a chime of bells, and Arlen’s eyes widened at the contents of the shop. Wards of every shape and size, made in every medium, filled the room.

‘Wait here,’ Ragen said, moving across the room to speak with a man sitting on a workbench. Arlen barely noticed him go, wandering around the room. He ran his fingers reverently over wards woven into tapestry, etched into smooth river stones, and moulded from metal. There were carved posts for farmers’ fields, and a portable circle like Ragen’s. He tried to memorize the wards he saw, but there were just too many.

‘Arlen, come here!’ Ragen called after a few minutes. Arlen started, and rushed over.

‘This is Master Cob,’ Ragen introduced, gesturing to a man who was perhaps sixty. Short for a Milnese, he had the look of a strong man gone to fat. A thick grey beard, shot through with signs of its former black, covered his face, and his close-cropped hair was thin on top of his head. His skin was lined and leathern, and his grip swallowed Arlen’s hand.

‘Ragen tells me you want to be a Warder,’ Cob said, sitting back heavily on the bench.

‘No, sir,’ Arlen replied. ‘I want to be a Messenger.’

‘So does every boy your age,’ Cob said. ‘The smart ones wise up before they get themselves killed.’

‘Weren’t you a Messenger once?’ Arlen asked, confused at the man’s attitude.

‘I was,’ Cob agreed, lifting his sleeve to show a tattoo similar to Ragen’s. ‘I travelled to the five Free Cities and a dozen hamlets, and earned more money than I thought I could ever spend.’ He paused, letting Arlen’s confusion grow. ‘I also earned this,’ he said, lifting his shirt to show thick scars running across his stomach, ‘and this.’ He slipped a foot from his shoe to reveal a crescent of scarred flesh, long healed, where four of his toes had been.

‘To this day,’ Cob said, ‘I can’t sleep more than an hour without starting awake, reaching for my spear. Yes, I was a Messenger. A damned good one and luckier than most, but I still would not wish it on anyone. Messengering may seem glorious, but for every man who lives in a manse and commands respect like Ragen here, there are two dozen rotting on the road.’

‘I don’t care,’ Arlen said. ‘It’s what I want.’

‘Then I’ll make a deal with you,’ Cob sighed. ‘A Messenger must be, above all, a Warder, so I’ll apprentice you and teach you to be one. When we have time, I’ll teach you what I know of surviving the road. An apprenticeship lasts seven years. If you still wish to be a Messenger then … well, you’re your own man.’

‘Seven years?’ Arlen gawked.

Cob snorted. ‘You don’t pick up warding in a day, boy.’

‘I can ward now,’ Arlen said defiantly.

‘So Ragen tells me,’ Cob said. ‘He also tells me you do it with no knowledge of geometry or wardtheory. Eyeballing your wards may not get you killed tomorrow, boy, or next week, but it will get you killed.’

Arlen stomped a foot. Seven years seemed like an eternity, but deep down he knew the master was right. The pain in his back was a constant reminder that he wasn’t ready to face the corelings again. He needed the skills this man could teach him. He didn’t doubt that there were dozens of Messengers who fell to the demons, and he vowed not to become one of them because he was too stubborn to learn from his mistakes.

‘All right,’ he agreed finally. ‘Seven years.’