'No one's beating anyone, Elona,' Erny said. 'If there's blame to be had, it's yours.'

'Shut up, Erny,' Elona said. 'It your fault she's so wilful, coddling her all the time.'

'I won't shut up,' Erny said, coming to face his wife.

'You will if you know what's good for ya,' Steave warned, balling a fist.

Erny looked at him and swallowed hard. 'I'm not afraid of you,' he said, but it came out as a squeak. Gared snickered.

Steave grabbed Erny by the front of his shirt, lifting him clear off the ground with one hand as he drew back his hamlike fist.

'You're going to stop acting like a fool,' Elona told him, 'and you,' she turned to Leesha, 'are coming home with us this instant.'

'She's not going anywhere,' Bruna said, setting down her knitting and leaning on her stick as she rose to her feet. 'The only ones leaving are you three.'

'Shut it, you old witch,' Elona said. 'I won't let you ruin my daughter's life the way you did mine.'

Bruna snorted. 'Did I pour pomm tea down your throat and force you to open your legs all about town?' she asked. 'Your misery is your own doing. Now get out of my hut.'

Elona rounded on her. 'Or you'll do what?' she challenged

Bruna gave a toothless smile and slammed her stick down on Elona's foot, bringing a scream from the younger woman's lips. She followed the blow with one to the gut, doubling Elona over and cutting her outburst short.

'Here, now!' Steave cried. Tossing poor Erny aside, he and Gared rushed the old woman.

Bruna seemed no more concerned than she had at the wood demon's charge. She reached into her shawl and brought forth a fistful of powder, blowing it into the faces of the two men.

Gared and Steave fell to the floor, clutching their faces and screaming.

'There's more where that came from, Elona,' Bruna said. 'I'll see you all blind before I take orders in my own home.'

Elona scampered for the door on all fours, shielding her face with her arm as she went. Bruna laughed, helping Elona out the door with a powerful blow to the posterior.

'Off with you two!' she shouted at Gared and Steave. 'Out, before I set you both afire!' The two men fumbled blindly, moaning in pain, their red faces awash in tears. Bruna swatted at them with her stick, guiding them out the door like she would a dog that had peed on the floor.

'Come back at your peril!' Bruna cackled wildly as they ran from her yard.

There was another knock, later in the day. Leesha was up and about by then, but still weak. 'What now?' Bruna barked. 'I haven't had this many visitors in one day since my paps sagged!'

She stomped over to the door, opening it to find Smitt standing there, wringing his hands nervously. Bruna's eyes narrowed as she regarded him.

'I'm retired,' she said. 'Fetch Darsy.' She started to close the door.

'Wait, please,' Smitt begged, reaching out to hold the door open. Bruna scowled, and he drew the hand back as if it had been burned.

'I'm waiting,' Bruna said testily.

'It's Ande,' Smitt said, referring to one of the men hurt in the attack that week. 'The wound in his gut started to rot, so Darsy cut him, and now he's passing blood from both ends.'

Bruna spat on Smitt's boots. 'I told you this would happen,' she said.

'I know,' Smitt said. 'You were right. I should have listened. Please come back. I'll do anything you ask.'

Bruna grunted. 'I won't make Ande pay for your stupidity,' she said. 'But I'll hold you at your word, don't you think for a second I won't!'

'Anything,' Smitt promised again.

'Erny!' Bruna barked. 'Fetch my herb cloth! Smitt here can carry it. You help your daughter along. We're going to town.'

Leesha leaned on her father's arm as they went. She was afraid she would slow them, but even in her weakened state, she could keep pace with Bruna's slow shuffle.

'I should make you carry me on your back,' Bruna grumped to Smitt as they went. 'My old legs aren't as fast as they once were.'

'I'll carry you, if you wish,' Smitt said.

'Don't be an idiot,' Bruna said.

Half the village was gathered outside the Holy House. There was a general sigh of relief as Bruna appeared, and whispers at the sight of Leesha, with her torn dress and bruises.

The crone ignored everyone, shoving people out of the way with her stick and going right inside. Leesha saw Gared and Steave lying on cots with damp cloth over their eyes, and swallowed a smirk. Bruna had explained that the pepper and stinkweed she dosed them with would do no permanent damage, but she hoped Darsy had not known enough to tell them that. Elona's eyes shot daggers at her from their side.

Bruna went straight to Ande's cot. He was bathed in sweat, and stank. His skin was yellowed, and the cloth wrapped around his loins was stained with blood, urine, and faeces. Bruna looked at him and spat. Darsy sat nearby. It was clear she had been crying.

'Leesha, unroll the herbs,' Bruna ordered. 'We have work to do.'

Darsy rushed over, reaching to take the blanket from Leesha. 'I can do that,' she said. 'You look about to collapse yourself.'

Leesha pulled the blanket away and shook her head. 'It's my place,' she replied, untying the blanket and rolling it open to reveal the many pockets of herbs.

'Leesha is my apprentice now!' Bruna shouted for all to hear. She looked Elona in the eye as she went on. 'Her promising to Gared is dissolved, and she will serve me for seven years and a day! Anyone with an ill word to say about that, or her, can heal their own sick!'

Elona opened her mouth, but Erny pointed straight at her. 'Shut it!' he barked. Elona's eyes bulged, and she coughed as she swallowed her words. Erny nodded, and then moved over to Smitt. The two men went and spoke quietly in a corner.

Leesha lost track of time as she and Bruna worked. Darsy had accidentally cut into Ande's intestine while trying to excise the demon rot, poisoning him with his own filth. Bruna cursed continually as she sought to undo the damage, sending Leesha scurrying to clean instruments, fetch herbs, and mix potions. She taught as she went, explaining Darsy's errors and what she was doing to correct them, and Leesha listened attentively.

Finally, they had done all they could, and stitched the wound closed, wrapping it in clean bandages. Ande remained drugged into a deep slumber, but he seemed to be breathing easier, and his skin was closer to its normal tone.

'Will he be all right?' Smitt asked, as Leesha helped Bruna to her feet.

'No thanks to you or Darsy,' Bruna snapped. 'But if he stays right where he is, and does exactly as he's told, then this won't be what kills him in the end.'

As they headed for the door, Bruna walked over to the cots where Gared and Steave lay. 'Take those stupid bandages off your eyes, and quit your whining,' she snapped.

Gared was the first to comply, squinting in the light. 'I can see!' he cried.

'Of course you can see, you wood-brained idiot,' Bruna said. 'The town needs someone to move heavy things from place to place, and you can't do that blind.' She shook her stick at him. 'But you cross me again, and blindness will be the least of your worries!'

Gared went pale, and nodded.

'Good,' Bruna said. 'Now say true. Did you take Leesha's flower?'

Gared looked around, frightened. Finally, his eyes dropped. 'No,' he said. 'It was a lie.'

'Speak up, boy,' Bruna snapped. 'I'm an old woman, and my ears aren't what they used to be.' Louder, so that everyone could hear, she asked, 'Did you take Leesha's flower?'

'No!' Gared called, his face flushing even redder than it had from the powder. Whispers spread like fire through the crowd at that.

Steave had removed his own bandage by then, and slapped his son hard on the back of the head. 'There's going to be the Core to pay when we get home,' he growled.

'Not my home,' Erny said. Elona looked up at him sharply, but Erny ignored her, pointing his thumb at Smitt. 'There's a room for the two of you at the inn,' he said.

'The cost of which you will work off,' Smitt added, 'and you'll be out in a month, even if all you've managed to build in that time is a lean-to.'

'Ridiculous!' Elona said. 'They can't work for their room and build a house in a month!'

'I think you have your own worries,' Smitt said.

'What do you mean?' Elona asked.

'He means you have a decision to make,' Erny said. 'Either you learn to keep your marriage vows, or I have the Tender dissolve it and you join Steave and Gared in their lean-to.'

'You can't be serious,' Elona said.

'I've never been more,' Erny replied.

'The Core with him,' Steave said. 'Come with me.'

Elona looked at him sideways. 'To live in a lean-to?' she asked. 'Not likely.'

'Then you'd best head home,' Erny said. 'It's going to take you a while to learn your way around the kitchen.'

Elona scowled, and Leesha knew her father's struggle was just beginning, but her mother left as she was told, and that said much for his chances.

Erny kissed his daughter. 'I'm proud of you,' he said. 'And I hope one day to make you proud of me, as well.'

'Oh, da,' Leesha said, hugging him, 'you have.'

'Then you'll come home?' he asked hopefully.

Leesha looked back at Bruna, then back at him, and shook her head.

Erny nodded, and hugged her again. 'I understand.'

7

Rojer

318 AR

 

 

 

 

Rojer followed his mother as she swept the inn, his little broom swishing side to side in imitation of her broad strokes. She smiled down at him, ruffling his bright red hair, and he beamed back at her. He was three years old.

'Sweep behind the firebox, Rojer,' she said, and he hurried to comply, slapping the bristles into the crevice between the box and wall, sending wood dust and bits of bark flying. His mother swept the results into a neat pile.

The door swung open, and Rojer's father came in, arms full of wood. He trailed bits of bark and soil as he crossed the room.

'Jessum!' his mother cried. 'I just swept in here!'

'I help sweep!' Rojer proclaimed loudly.

'That's right,' his mother agreed, 'and your father's making a mess.'

'You want to run out of wood in the night with the duke and his entourage upstairs?' Jessum asked.

'His Grace won't be here for a week at least,' his mother replied.

'Best do the work now while the inn's quiet, Kally,' Jessum said. 'No telling how many courtiers the duke will bring, running us to and fro to like little Riverbridge was Angiers itself.'

'If you want to do something useful,' Kally said, 'the wards outside are starting to peel.'

Jessum nodded. 'I saw,' he said. 'The wood warped in that last cold snap.'

'Master Piter was supposed to redraw them a week ago,' Kally said.

'Spoke to him yesterday,' Jessum said. 'He's putting everyone off to work on the bridge, but he says they'll be ready before the duke comes.'

'It's not the duke I'm worried about,' Kally said. 'Piter's only concern may be impressing Rhinebeck in hopes of a royal commission, but I have simpler concerns, like not having my family cored in the night.'

'All right, all right,' Jessum said, holding up his hands. 'I'll go talk to him again.'

'You'd think Piter would know better,' Kally went on. 'Rhinebeck isn't even our duke.'

'He's the only one close enough to get help to us if we need it quick,' Jessum said. 'Euchor doesn't care for Riverbridge, long as Messengers get through and taxes come on time.'

'See the light,' Kally said. 'If Rhinebeck's coming, it's because he's sniffing for taxes, too. We'll be paying from both ends afore Rojer sees another summer.'

'What would you have us do?' Jessum asked. 'Anger the duke a day away for the sake of the one two weeks to the north?'

'I didn't say we should spit in his eye,' Kally said. 'I just don't see why impressing him comes before warding our own homes.'

'I said I'd go,' Jessum said.

'So go,' Kally said. 'It's past noon already. And take Rojer with you. Maybe that will remind you what's really important.'

Jessum swallowed his scowl and squatted before his son. 'Want to go see the bridge, Rojer?' he asked.

'Fishing?' Rojer asked. He loved to fish off the side of the bridge with his father.

Jessum laughed, sweeping Rojer into his arms. 'Not today,' he said. 'Your mum wants us to have a word with Piter.'

He sat Rojer up on his shoulders. 'Now hold on tight,' he said, and Rojer held onto his father's head as he ducked out the door. His cheeks were scratchy with stubble.

It wasn't far to the bridge. Riverbridge was small even for a hamlet; just a handful of houses and shops, the barracks for the men-at-arms who collected tolls, and his parents' inn. Rojer waved to the guards as they passed the tollhouse, and they waved back.

The bridge spanned the Dividing River at its narrowest point. Built in generations gone, it had two arches, spanning over three hundred feet, and was wide enough for a large cart with a horse to either side. A team of Milnese engineers maintained the ropes and supports daily. The Messenger Road - the only road - stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction.

Master Piter was at the far end, shouting instructions over the side of the bridge. Rojer followed his gaze, and saw his apprentices hanging from slings as they warded the underside.

'Piter!' Jessum called when they were halfway across the bridge.

'Ay, Jessum!' the Warder called. Jessum put Rojer down as he and Piter shook hands.

'Bridge is looking good,' Jessum noted. Piter had replaced most of his simpler painted wards with intricate etched calligraphy, lacquered and polished.

Piter smiled. 'The duke will fill his breeches when he sees my warding,' he proclaimed.

Jessum laughed. 'Rally's scouring the inn as we speak,' he said.

'Make the duke happy and your future's set,' Piter said. 'A word of praise in the right ears, and we could be plying our trades in Angiers and not this backwater.'

'This 'backwater' is my home,' Jessum said, scowling. 'My grand da was born in Riverbridge, and if I have my say, my grandkids will be, too.'

Piter nodded. 'No offense meant,' he said. 'I just miss Angiers.'

'So go back,' Jessum said. 'The road is open, and a single night out on the road is no great feat for a Warder. You don't need the duke for that.'

Piter shook his head. 'Angiers is teeming with Warders,' he said. 'I would just be another leaf in the forest. But if I could claim the duke's favour, it would put a line out my door.'

'Well, it's my door I'm worried about today,' Jessum said. 'The wards're peeling off, and Kally don't think they'll last the night. Can you come take a look?'

Piter blew out a breath. 'I told you yesterday...' he began, but Jessum cut him off.

'I know what you told me, Piter, but I'm telling you it ent enough,' he said. 'I won't have my boy sleeping behind weak wards so you can make the ones on the bridge a bit artsier. Can't you just patch them for the night?'

Piter spat. 'You can do that yourself, Jessum. Just trace the lines. I'll give you paint.'

'Rojer wards better than me, and that's not at all,' Jessum said. 'I'd make a botch of it, and Kally would kill me if the corelings didn't.'

Piter scowled. He was about to reply when there was a shout from down the road.

'Ay, Riverbridge!'

'Geral!' Jessum called. Rojer looked up in sudden interest, recognizing the Messenger's bulky frame. His mouth watered at the sight. Geral always had a sweet for him.

Another man rode next to him, a stranger, but his Jongleur's motley put the boy at ease. He thought of how the last Jongleur had sung and danced and walked upside down on his hands, and he hopped with excitement. Rojer loved Jongleurs more than anything.

'Little Rojer, gone and grown another six inches!' Geral cried, pulling up his horse and leaping down to pick Rojer up. He was tall and built like a rain barrel, with a round face and grizzled beard. Rojer had been afraid of him once, with his metal shirt and the demon scar that turned his lower lip into an angry pucker, but no more. He laughed as Geral tickled him.

'Which pocket?' Geral asked, holding the boy at arms' length. Rojer pointed immediately. Geral always kept the sweets in the same place.

The big Messenger laughed, retrieving a Rizonan sugar wrapped in a twist of corn husk. Rojer squealed and plopped down on the grass to unwrap it.

'What brings you to Riverbridge this time?' Jessum asked the Messenger.

In response, the Jongleur stepped forward, sweeping his cloak back in a flourish. He was tall, with long hair sun-bleached to gold and a brown beard. His jaw was perfectly squared, and his skin sun-bronzed. Over his motley he wore a fine tabard emblazoned with a cluster of green leaves on a field of brown.

'Arrick Sweetsong,' he introduced himself, 'Master Jongleur and herald to His Grace, Duke Rhinebeck III, guardian of the forest fortress, wearer of the wooden crown, and Lord of all Angiers. I come to inspect the town before His Grace's arrival next week.'

'The duke's herald is a Jongleur?' Piter asked Geral, raising an eyebrow.

'None better for the hamlets,' Geral replied with a wink. 'Folks are less likely to string a man up for telling them taxes are raised when he's juggling for their kids.'

Arrick scowled at him, but Geral only laughed.

'Be a good man and fetch the innkeep to come for our horses,' Arrick told Jessum.

'I'm the innkeep,' Rojer's father said, holding out his hand. Messum Inn. That's my boy, Rojer,' he nodded at Rojer.

Arrick ignored the hand and the boy, producing a silver moon as if from thin air and flicking it his way. Jessum caught the coin, looking at it curiously.

'The horses,' Arrick said pointedly. Jessum frowned, but he pocketed the coin and moved for the animals. Geral took his own reins and waved him away.

'I still need my wards looked at, Piter,' Jessum said. 'You'll be sorry if I have to send Kally to shriek at you about it.'

'It looks like the bridge still needs a lot of work before His Grace arrives,' Arrick noted. Piter stood a bit straighter at that and gave Jessum a sour look.

'Do you wish to sleep behind peeling wards tonight, Master Jongleur?' Jessum asked. Arrick's bronzed skin paled at that.

'I'll take a look at them, if you want,' Geral said. 'I can patch them if they're not too bad, and I'll fetch Piter myself if they are. He stomped his spear and gave the Warder a hard stare. Piter's eyes widened, and he nodded his understanding.

Geral picked Rojer up and sat him on top of his huge destrier. 'Hold the reins tight, boy,' he said, 'we're going for a ride!' Rojer laughed and pulled the destrier's mane as Geral and his father led the horses to the inn. Arrick strode ahead of them like a man followed by servants.

Kally was waiting at the door. 'Geral!' she called, 'What a pleasant surprise!'

'And who is this?' Arrick asked, his hands flicking quickly to smooth his hair and clothes.

'This is Kally,' Jessum said, adding, 'my wife.'

Arrick seemed not to hear, striding up to her and throwing his multicoloured cloak back as he made a leg.

'A pleasure, madam,' he said, kissing her hand. 'I am Arrick Sweetsong, Master Jongleur and herald to Duke Rhinebeck III, guardian of the forest fortress, wearer of the wooden crown, and Lord of all Angiers. His Grace will be pleased see such beauty when he visits your fine inn.'

Kally covered her mouth, her pale cheeks colouring to match her red hair. She made a clumsy curtsey in return.

'You and Geral must be tired,' she said. 'Come in and I'll serve some hot soup while I prepare supper.'

'We would be delighted, good lady,' Arrick said, bowing again.

'Geral promised to look over the wards for us before dark, Kal,' Jessum said.

'What?' Kally asked, pulling her eyes from Arrick's handsome smile. 'Oh, well you two stake the horses and see to that while I show Master Arrick a room and start supper,' she said.

'A lovely idea,' Arrick said, offering her an arm as they went inside.

'Keep an eye on Arrick with your wife,' Geral muttered. 'They call him 'Sweetsong' because his voice will make any woman sweet between the legs, and I've never known him to stop at a wedding vow.'

Jessum scowled. 'Rojer,' he said, pulling him off the horse, 'run in and stay with mum.'

Rojer nodded, hitting the ground running.

'The last Jongleur ate fire,' Rojer said. 'Can you eat fire?'

'That I can,' Arrick said, 'and spit it back out like a flame demon.' Rojer clapped his hands and Arrick turned back to gaze at Kally, who was bending behind the bar to fill him a mug of ale. She had let her hair down.

Rojer pulled his cloak again. The Jongleur tried to tuck it out of reach, but Rojer just tugged on his pant leg instead.

'What is it?' Arrick asked, turning back to him with a scowl.

'Do you sing, too?' Rojer asked. 'I like singing.'

'Perhaps I will sing for you later,' Arrick said, turning away again.

'Oh give him a little song,' Kally begged, putting a foaming mug on the counter before him. 'It would make him so happy.' She smiled, but Arrick's eyes had already drifted down to the top button of her dress, which had mysteriously come undone while she fetched his mug.

'Of course,' Arrick said, smiling brightly. 'Just a pull of your fine ale to wash the dust from my throat.'

He drained the mug in one quaff, eyes never leaving her neckline, and reached for a large multicoloured bag on the floor. Kally refilled his mug as he produced his lute.

Arrick's rich alto voice filled the room, clear and beautiful as he gently strummed the lute. He sang a song of a hamlet woman who missed her one chance to love a man before he left for the Free Cities, and forever regretted it. Kally and Rojer stared at him in wonder, mesmerized by the sound. When he finished, they clapped loudly.

'More!' Rojer cried.

'Not now, my boy,' Arrick said, ruffling his hair. 'Perhaps after supper. Here,' he said, reaching into the multicoloured bag, 'why not try making your own music?' He produced a straw fiddle, several strips of polished rosewood in different lengths set into a lacquered wooden frame. A stout cord attached it to the wand, a six-inch stick with a lathed wooden ball at the end.

'Take this and go play a bit while I speak with your lovely mother,' he said.

Rojer squealed in delight, taking the toy and running off to plop down on the wooden floor, striking the strips in different patterns, delighting in the clear sounds each made.

Kally laughed at the sight. 'He's going to be a Jongleur one day,' she said.

'Not a lot of custom?' Arrick asked, sweeping his hand over the empty tables in the common room.

'Oh, it was crowded enough at lunchtime,' Kally said, 'but this time of year, we don't get many of boarders apart from the occasional Messenger.'

'It must get lonely, tending an empty inn,' Arrick said.

'Sometimes,' Kally said, 'but I've Rojer to keep me busy. He's a handful even when it's quiet, and a terror during caravan season, when the drivers get drunk and sing till all hours, keeping him up with their racket.'

'I imagine it must be hard for you to sleep through that, too,' Arrick said.

'It's hard for me,' Kally admitted. 'But Jessum can sleep through anything.'

'Is that so?' Arrick asked, sliding his hand over hers. Her eyes widened and she stopped breathing, but she didn't pull away.

The front door slammed open. 'Wards are patched!' Jessum called. Kally gasped, snatching her hand away from Arrick's so quickly she spilled his ale across the bar. She grabbed a rag to soak it up.

'Just a patch job?' she asked doubtfully, her eyes down to hide the flush in her cheeks.

'Not by a spear's throw,' Geral said. 'Honestly, you're lucky they lasted as long as they did. I patched the worst of them, and I'll have a talk with Piter in the morning. I'll see him replace every ward on this inn before sunset if I have to hold him at spearpoint.'

'Thank you Geral,' Kally said, casting Jessum a withering look.

'I'm still mucking the barn,' Jessum said, 'so I staked the horses out in the yard in Geral's portable circle.'

'That's fine,' Kally said. 'Wash up, all of you. Supper will be ready soon.'

 

 

 

'Delicious,' Arrick proclaimed, drinking copious amounts of ale with his supper. Kally had roasted an herb-crusted shank of lamb, serving the finest cut to the duke's herald.

'I don't suppose you have a sister as beautiful as yourself?' Arrick asked between mouthfuls. 'His Grace is in the market for a new bride.'

'I thought the duke already had a wife,' Kally said, blushing as she leaned to fill his mug.

'He does,' Geral grunted. 'His fourth.'

Arrick snorted. 'No more fertile than the others, I'm afraid, if the talk around the palace holds true. Rhinebeck will keep seeking wives until one gives him a son.'

'You might have the right of that,' Geral admitted.

'How many times will the Tenders let him stand and promise the Creator 'forever'?' Jessum asked.

'As many as he needs,' Arrick assured. 'Minister Janson keeps the Holy Men in check.'

Geral spat. 'It's not right, men of the Creator having to debase themselves for that...'

Arrick held up a warning finger. 'They say even the trees have ears for those who speak out against the First Minister.'

Geral scowled, but he held his tongue, knowing Arrick's words to be true.

'Well, he's not likely to find a bride in Riverbridge,' Jessum said. 'There aren't even women enough for those of us here. I had to go all the way to Cricket Run to find Kally.'

'You're Angerian, my dear?' Arrick asked.

'Born, yes,' Kally said, 'but the Tender had me swear an oath to Miln at the wedding. All Bridgefolk are required to swear to Euchor.'

'For now,' Arrick said.

'So it's true, what they say,' Jessum said. 'Rhinebeck is coming to lay claim to Riverbridge.'

'Nothing so dramatic,' Arrick said. 'His Grace simply feels that with half your people of Angierian stock and your bridge built and maintained from Angierian timber, that we should all have a...' he eyed Kally as she sat back down, 'closer relationship.'

'I doubt Euchor will be quick to share Riverbridge,' Jessum said. 'The Dividing has separated their lands for a thousand years. He'll no sooner yield that border than his own throne.'

Arrick shrugged and smiled again. 'That is a matter for Dukes and Ministers,' he said, raising his mug. 'Small folk such as us need not concern ourselves over such things.'

The sun soon set, and outside, there were sharp, crackling retorts, punctuated by flashes of light that leaked through the shutters as wards flared. Rojer hated those harsh sounds, and the shrieks that came with them. He sat on the floor, striking his noisemaker harder and harder, trying to drown them out.

'Corelings 'r hungry tonight,' his father mused.

'It's upsetting Rojer,' Kally said rising from her seat to go to him.

'Not to fear,' Arrick said, wiping his mouth. He went to his multicoloured bag, pulling out a slim fiddle case. 'We'll drive those demons off

He put bow to string, and immediately filled the room with music. Rojer laughed and clapped, his fear vanished. His mother clapped with him, and they found a rhythm to complement Arrick's tune. Even Geral and Jessum began to clap along.

'Dance with me, Rojer!' Kally laughed, taking his hand and pulling him to his feet.

Rojer tried to keep up as she stepped to the beat, but he stumbled and she swept him up in her arms, kissing him as she spun around the room. Rojer laughed in delight.

There was a sudden crash. Arrick's bow slipped from the strings as everyone turned to see the heavy wooden door shaking in its frame. Dust, knocked loose by some unseen impact, drifted lazily to the floor.

Geral was the first to react, the big man moving with surprising speed for the spear and shield he had left by the door. For a long moment, the others stared at him, uncomprehending. There was another crash, and thick black talons burst through the wood. Kally shrieked.

Jessum leapt to the fireplace, snatching up a heavy iron poker. 'Get Rojer to the bolt hole in the kitchen!' he cried, his words punctuated by a roar from beyond the door.

Geral had snatched up his spear by then, and threw his shield to Arrick. 'Get Kally and the boy out!' he cried as the door splintered and a seven-foot rock demon burst through. Geral and Jessum turned to meet it. The creature paused to throw back its head and shriek its triumph, while small nimble flame demons darted into the room around and between its thick legs.

Arrick caught the shield, but when Kally ran to his protection, Rojer clutched in her arms, he shoved her aside, snatching up his multicoloured bag and sprinting to the kitchen.

'Kally!' Jessum cried as she struck the floor, twisting to shield her son from the impact.

'Damn you to the Core, Arrick!' Geral called after the Jongleur. 'May all your dreams turn to dust!' the rock demon struck him a backhand blow, launching him across the room.

A flame demon leapt at her as Kally struggled to her feet, but Jessum struck it hard with the poker, knocking it aside. It coughed fire as it landed, setting the floor alight.

'Go!' he cried as she got her feet under her. From over her shoulder, Rojer watched the demon spit fire on his father as they fled the room. Jessum screamed as his clothes ignited.

His mother clutched him tightly to her breast, moaning as she ran down the hall. Back in the common room, Geral roared in pain.

They burst into the kitchen just as Arrick yanked open the trap door and dropped down. His hand reached back, slapping around for the heavy iron ring to pull the warded trap shut.

'Master Arrick!' Kally cried. Wait for us!'

'Demon!' Rojer screamed as a flame demon scampered into the room, but his warning came too late. The impact as the coreling struck them knocked the breath from his mother, but she kept hold of him even as the creature's talons dug deep into her. She shrieked as it ran up her back, its razor teeth clamping down on her shoulder and slicing through Rojer's right hand. He howled.

'Rojer!' his mother cried, stumbling towards the washing trough before falling to her knees. Screaming in pain, she reached back and got a firm grip on one of the coreling's horns.

'You... can't... have... my... son!' she screamed, and threw herself forward, pulling on the horn with all her strength. Torn from its perch, the demon took ribbons of flesh with it, as Kally flipped it into the trough.

Soaking crockery shattered on impact, and the flame demon gurgled and thrashed, steam filling the air as the water was brought to an instant boil. Kally screamed as her arms burned, but she held the creature under until its thrashes stopped.

'Mum!' Rojer cried, and she turned to see two more of the creatures scamper into the room. She grabbed Rojer and ran for the trap, yanking the heavy door open with one hand. Arrick's wide eyes looked up at her.

Kally fell as a flame demon latched onto her leg, taking a bite of her thigh. 'Take him! Please!' she begged, shoving the boy down into Arrick's arms.

'I love you!' she cried to Rojer as she slammed the trap shut, leaving them in darkness.

So close to the Dividing River, houses in Riverbridge were built on great warded blocks to resist flooding. They waited in the darkness, safe enough from corelings so long as the foundation held, but there was smoke everywhere.

'Die from demons or die from smoke,' Arrick muttered. He started to move away from the trap, but Rojer clung hard to his leg.

'Let go, boy,' Arrick said, kicking his leg in an attempt to shake the boy off.

'Don't leave me!' Rojer cried, weeping uncontrollably.

Arrick frowned. He looked around at the smoke, and spat.

'Hold tight, boy,' he said, putting Rojer on his back. He lifted the edges of his cape to seat the boy in a makeshift sling, tying the corners about his waist. He took up Geral's shield and picked his way through the foundation, crouching to crawl out into the night.

'Creator above,' he whispered, as he saw the entire village of Riverbridge in flames. Demons danced in the night, dragging screaming bodies out to feast.

'Seems your parents weren't the only ones Piter shorted,' Arrick said. 'I hope they drag that bastard down into the Core.'

Crouching behind the shield, Arrick made his way around the inn, hiding in the smoke and confusion until they made the main courtyard. There, safe in Geral's portable circle, were the two horses; an island of safety amidst the horror.

A flame demon caught sight of them as Arrick broke into a run middle and index fingers were bitten clear away; his remaining fingers still clutched tightly about a lock of red hair, his mother's, severed by the bite.

'No!' Rojer cried, as Arrick tried to take the hair away. 'It's mine!'

'I won't take it, boy,' Arrick said, 'I just need to see the bite.' He put the lock in Rojer's other hand, and the boy clenched it tightly.

The wound wasn't bleeding badly, partly cauterized by the flame demon's saliva, but it oozed and stank.

'I'm no Herb Gatherer,' Arrick said with a shrug, and squirted it with wine from his skin. Rojer screamed, and Arrick tore a bit of his fine cloak to wrap the wound.

Rojer was crying freely by then, and Arrick wrapped him tightly in his cloak. 'There, there, boy,' he said, holding him close and stroking his back. 'We're alive to tell the tale. That's something, isn't it?'

Rojer kept on weeping, and Arrick began to sing a lullaby. He sang as Riverbridge burned. He sang as the demons danced and feasted. The sound was like a shield around them, and under its protection, Rojer gave in to exhaustion and fell asleep.

8

To the Free Cities

319 AR

 

 

Arlen leaned more heavily on his walking stick as the fever grew in him. He hunched over and retched, but his empty stomach had only bile to yield. Dizzy, he searched for a focal point.

He saw a plume of smoke.

There was a structure off the side of the road far ahead. A stone wall, so overgrown with vines that it was nearly invisible. The smoke was coming from there.

Hope of succour gave strength to his watery limbs, and he stumbled on. He made the wall, leaning against it as he dragged himself along, looking for an entrance. The stone was pitted and cracked; creeping vines threaded into every nook and cranny. Without the vines to support it, the ancient wall might simply collapse, much as Arlen would, without the wall to support him.

At last he came to an arch in the wall. Two metal gates, rusted off their hinges, lay before it in the weeds. Time had eaten them away to nothing. The arch opened into a wide courtyard choked with vine and weed. There was a broken fountain filled with murky rainwater, and a low building so covered in ivy that it could be missed at a glance.

Arlen walked around the yard in awe. Beneath the growth, the ground was cracked stone. Full-sized trees had broken through, overturning giant blocks now covered in moss. Arlen could see deep claw marks in the plain stone.

No wards, he realized in amazement. This place was from before The Return. If that was so, it had been abandoned for over three hundred years.

The door to the building had rotted away like the gate. A small stone entryway led into a wide room. Wires hung in a tangle from the walls, the art they had held long disintegrated. A coating of slime on the floor was all that remained of a thick carpet. Ancient grooves were clawed into the walls and furniture, remnants of the fall.

'Hello?' Arlen called. 'Is anyone here?'

There was no reply.

His face felt hot, but he was shivering, even in the warm air. He did not think he could manage to search much further, but there had been smoke, and smoke meant life. The thought gave him strength, and finding a crumbling stairwell, he picked his way to the second floor.

Much of the building's top floor was open to sunlight. The roof was cracked and caved in; rusting metal bars jutting from the crumbling stone.

'Is anyone here?' Arlen called. He searched the floor, but found only rot and ruin.

As he was losing hope, he saw the smoke through a window at the far end of the hall. He ran to it, but found only a broken tree limb lying in the rear courtyard. Its was clawed and blackened, with small fires still crackling in places, giving off a steady plume.

Crestfallen, his face twisted, but he refused to cry. He thought about just sitting and waiting for the demons to come in hopes they would give him a faster death than the sickness, but he had sworn to give then nothing, and besides, Marea's death had certainly not been quick. He looked down from the window to the stone courtyard.

A fall from here would kill anyone, he mused. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and it felt easy and right to just let himself fall.

Like Cholie? a voice in his head asked.

The noose flashed in his mind, and Arlen snapped back to reality, catching himself and pulling away from the window.

No, he thought, Cholie's way is no better than Da's. When I die, it will be because something killed me, not because I gave up.

He could see far from the high window, over the wall and down the road. Off in the distance, he spotted movement, coming his way.

Ragen.

Arlen tapped reserves of strength he didn't know he had, bounding down the steps with something approaching his usual alacrity and running full out through the courtyard.

But his breath gave out as he reached the road, and he fell onto the clay, gasping and clutching a stitch in his side. It felt like there were a thousand splinters in his chest.

He looked up and saw the figures still far down the road, but close enough that they saw him, too. He heard a shout as the world went black.

Arlen awoke in daylight, lying on his stomach. He took a breath, feeling bandages wrapped tightly around him. His back still ached, but it no longer burned, and for the first time in days, his face felt cool. He put his hands under him to rise, but pain shot through him.

'I wouldn't be in any rush to do that,' Ragen advised. 'You're lucky to be alive.'

'What happened?' Arlen asked, looking up at the man who sat nearby.

'Found you passed out on the road,' the man said. 'The cuts on your back had demon rot. Had to cut you open and drain the poison before I could sew them up.'

'Where's Keerin?' Arlen asked.

Ragen laughed. 'Inside,' he said. 'Keerin's been keeping his distance the last couple days. He couldn't handle the gore, and sicked up when we first found you.'

'Days?' Arlen asked. He looked around and found himself back in the ancient courtyard. Ragen had made camp there, his portable circles protecting the bedrolls and animals.

'We found you around high sun on Thirday,' Ragen said. 'It's Fifthday now. You've been delirious the whole time; thrashing around as you sweated out the sickness.'

'You cured my demon fever?!' Arlen asked in shock.

'That what they call it in the Brook?' Ragen asked. He shrugged. 'Good a name as any, I suppose, but it's not some magic disease, boy; just an infection. I found some hogroot not far off the road, so I was able to poultice the cuts. I'll make some tea with it later. If you drink it for the next few days, you should be all right'

'Hogroot?' Arlen asked.

Ragen held up a weed that grew most everywhere. 'A staple of every Messenger's herb pouch, though it's best when fresh. Makes you a little dizzy, but for some reason, demon rot can't abide it.'

Arlen began to cry. His mother could have been cured by a weed he regularly pulled from Jeph's field? It was just too much.

Ragen waited quietly, giving Arlen space while the tears ran their course. After what seemed an eternity, the flow began to ebb, and his heaving sobs eased. Ragen handed him a cloth wordlessly, and Arlen dried his cheeks.

'Arlen,' the Messenger asked finally, 'what are you doing all the way out here?'

Arlen looked at him for a long time, trying to decide what to say. When he finally spoke, the tale came spilling out in a rush. He told the Messenger everything, starting with the night his mother was injured and ending with running from his father.

Ragen was quiet while he took in Arlen's tale. 'I'm sorry about your mother, Arlen,' he said at last. Arlen sniffled and nodded.

Keerin wandered back as Arlen began telling how he had tried to find the road to Sunny Pasture, but had accidentally taken the fork to the Free Cities instead. He gave rapt attention as Arlen described his first night alone, the giant rock demon, and how he had scuffed the ward. The Jongleur went pale when Arlen described the race to repair it before the demon killed him.

'You're the one that cut that demon's arm off?!' Ragen asked incredulously, a moment later. Keerin looked ready to sick up again.

'Its not a trick I mean to try again,' Arlen said.

'No, I don't suppose it is,' Ragen chuckled. 'Still, crippling a fifteen foot rock demon is a deed worth a song or two, eh, Keerin?' He elbowed the Jongleur, but that seemed to push the man over the edge. He covered his mouth and ran off. Ragen shook his head and sighed.

'A giant one-armed rock demon's been haunting us ever since we found you,' he explained. 'It's hammered the wards harder than any coreling I've ever seen.'

'Is he going to be all right?' Arlen asked, watching Keerin double over.

'It'll pass,' Ragen grunted. 'Let's get some food into you.' He helped Arlen sit up against the horse's saddle. The move sent a stab of pain through him, and Ragen saw him wince.

'Chew on this,' he advised, handing Arlen a gnarled root. 'It will make you a little light headed, but it should ease the pain.'

'Are you an Herb Gatherer?' Arlen asked.

Ragen laughed. 'No, but a Messenger needs to know a little of every art, if he wants to survive.' He reached into his saddlebags, pulling out a metal cookpot, and some utensils.

'I wish you'd told Coline about hogroot,' Arlen lamented.

'I would have,' Ragen said, 'if I thought for a second she didn't know.' He filled the pot, and hung it from the tripod over the firepit. 'It's amazing what people have forgotten.'

He stoked the flames as Keerin returned, looking pale but relieved. 'I'll be sure to mention it when we take you back.'

'Back?' Arlen asked.

'Back?' Keerin echoed.

'Of course 'back',' Ragen said. 'Your da will be looking for you, Arlen.'

'But I don't want to go back,' Arlen said. 'I want to go to the Free Cities with you.'

'You can't just run away from your problems, Arlen,' Ragen said.

'I'm not going back,' Arlen said. 'You can drag me there, but I'll run again the second you let go.'

Ragen stared at him for a long time. Finally, he glanced at Keerin.

'You know what I think,' Keerin said. 'I've no desire to add five nights, at least, to our trip home.'

Ragen frowned at Arlen. 'I'll be writing your father when we get to Miln,' he warned.

'You'll be wasting your time,' Arlen said. 'He'll never come for me.'

The stone floor of the courtyard and the high wall hid them well that night. A wide portable circle secured the cart, and the animals were staked and hobbled in another. They were in the inner of two concentric rings, with the fire at the centre.

Keerin lay huddled in his bedroll, with the blanket over his head. He was shivering though it was not cold, and when the occasional coreling tested the wards, he twitched.

'Why do they keep attacking when they can't get through?' Arlen asked.

'They're looking for flaws in the net,' Ragen said. 'You'll never see a coreling attack the same spot twice.' He tapped his temple. 'They remember. Corelings aren't smart enough to study the wards and reason out the weak spots, so they attack the barrier and search that way. They get through rarely, but often enough to make it worth their while.'

A wind demon came swooping over the wall and bounced off the wards. Keerin whimpered from under his blanket at the sound.

Ragen looked over at the Jongleur's bedroll and shook his head. 'It's like he thinks that if he can't see the corelings, they can't see him,' he muttered.

'Is he always like this?' Arlen asked.

'That one-armed demon has him more spooked than usual,' Ragen said, 'but he wasn't exactly standing at the wards before.' He shrugged. 'I needed a Jongleur on short notice. The Guild gave me Keerin. I don't normally work with ones so green.'

'Why bring a Jongleur at all, then?' Arlen asked.

'Oh, you have to bring a Jongleur with you when you're going to the hamlets,' Ragen said. 'They're apt to stone you if you show up without one.'

'Hamlets?'

'Small villages, like Tibbet's Brook,' Ragen explained. 'Places too far for the dukes to easily control. Some men,' he went on, 'can be merchant Jongleur, Herb Gatherer, and Messenger all at once, but they're about as common as a friendly coreling. Most Messengers who take the hamlet routes have to hire a Jongleur.'

Ragen rose before the sun the next morning. Arlen was already awake, and Ragen nodded at him in approval. 'Messengers don't have the luxury of sleeping late,' he said as he loudly clattered his cookpans to wake Keerin. 'Every moment of light is needed.'

Arlen was feeling well enough by then to sit next to Keerin in the cart as it trundled towards the tiny lumps on the horizon Ragen called mountains. To pass the time, Ragen told Arlen tales of his travels, and pointed to herbs along the side of the road, saying which to eat and which to avoid, which could poultice a wound, and which would make it worse. He noted the most defensible spots to spend a night and why, and warned about predators.

'Corelings kill the slowest and weakest animals,' Ragen said. 'So only the biggest and strongest, or those best at hiding, survive. Out on the road, corelings aren't the only thing that will see you as prey.'

Keerin looked around nervously.

'What was that place we stayed in the last few nights?' Arlen asked.

Ragen shrugged. 'Just some minor lord's keep,' he said. 'There's hundreds of them in the lands between here and Miln, old ruins picked clean by countless Messengers.'

'Messengers?' Arlen asked.

'Of course,' Ragen said. 'Some Messengers spend weeks hunting for ruins. The ones lucky enough to stumble on ruins no one's ever found can come back with all kinds of loot. Gold, jewels, carvings, sometimes even old wards. But the real prize they're all chasing is the old wards, the fighting wards, if they ever really existed.'

'Do you think they existed?' Arlen asked.

Ragen nodded. 'But I'm not about to risk my neck leaving the road to look for them.'

After a couple of hours, Ragen led them off the road to a small cave. 'Always best to ward a shelter when you can,' he told Arlen. 'This cave is one of a few noted in Graig's log.'

Ragen and Keerin set up camp, feeding and watering the animals and moving their supplies into the cave. The unhitched cart was put in a circle just outside. While they worked, Arlen inspected the portable circle. 'There are wards here I don't know,' he noted, tracing the markings with a finger.

'I saw a few in Tibbet's Brook that were new to me, as well,' Ragen admitted. 'I copied them down in my log. Perhaps tonight you can tell me what they do?' Arlen smiled, pleased that he might offer something in return for Ragen's generosity.

Keerin began shifting uncomfortably as they ate, looking frequently at the darkening sky, but Ragen seemed unhurried as the shadows grew.

'Best to bring the mollies into the cave now,' Ragen noted finally. Keerin immediately moved to comply. 'Pack animals hate caves,' Ragen told Arlen, 'so you wait as long as you can before bringing them in. The horse always goes last.'

'Doesn't it have a name?' Arlen asked.

Ragen shook his head. 'My horses have to earn their names,' he said. 'The Guild trains them special, but plenty of horses still spook when chained outside in a portable circle at night. Only the ones I know won't bolt or panic get names. I bought this one in Angiers, after my garron ran off and got cored. If she makes it to Miln, I'll give her a name.'

'She'll make it,' Arlen said, stroking the courser's neck. When Keerin had the mollies inside, he took her bridle and led her into the cave.

As the others settled in, Arlen studied the cave mouth. Wards were chiselled into the stone, but not the floor of the entrance. 'The wards are incomplete,' he said, pointing.

'Course they are,' Ragen answered. 'Can't ward soil, can we?' He looked at Arlen curiously. 'What would you do to complete the circle?' he asked.

Arlen studied the puzzle. The mouth of the cave wasn't a perfect circle, more like an inverted 'u'. Harder to ward, but not too hard, and the wards carved on the rock were common enough. Taking a stick, he sketched wards in the soil, their lines connecting smoothly with those already in place. He checked them thrice, and then slid back, looking at Ragen for approval.

The Messenger was silent a moment as he studied Arlen's work, then nodded.

'Well done,' Ragen said, and Arlen beamed. 'You plotted the vertices masterfully. I couldn't have woven a tighter web myself, and you did all the equations in your head, no less.'

'Uh, thanks,' Arlen said, though he had no idea what Ragen was talking about.

Ragen caught the boy's pause. 'You did do the equations, didn't you?' he asked.

'What's an equation?' Arlen asked. 'That line,' he pointed to the nearest ward, 'goes to that ward there,' he pointed to the wall. 'It crosses these lines,' he pointed to other wards, 'which crisscross with those here,' he pointed to still others. 'It's as simple as that.'

Ragen was aghast. 'You mean you just eyeballed it?' he demanded.

Arlen shrugged as Ragen turned back to him. 'Most people use a straightstick to check the lines,' he admitted, 'but I never bother.'

'How Tibbet's Brook isn't swallowed by the night, I have no idea,' Ragen said. He pulled a sack from his saddlebag and knelt at the cave mouth, sweeping Arlen's wards away.

'Soil wards are still foolhardy, however well drawn,' he said.

Ragen selected a handful of lacquered wooden ward plates from the sack. Using a straightstick marked with lines, he spaced them out quickly, re-sealing the net.

It hadn't been dark for more than an hour when the giant one-armed rock demon bounded into the clearing. It gave a great howl, sweeping lesser demons aside as it stomped towards the cave mouth, roaring a challenge. Keerin groaned, retreating to the back of the cave.

'That one has your scent now,' Ragen warned. 'It will follow you forever, waiting for you to drop your guard.'

Arlen looked at the monster for a long moment, considering the Messenger's words. The demon snarled and struck hard at the barrier, but the wards flared and knocked it away. Keerin whimpered, but Arlen rose and walked up to the mouth of the cave. He met the coreling's eyes and slowly raised his hands, bringing them together suddenly in a loud clap, mocking the demon with his two limbs.

'Let it waste its time,' he said as the demon howled in impotent rage. 'It won't get me.'

They continued on the road for almost a week. Ragen turned them north, passing through the foothills of the mountain range, ascending ever higher. Now and again Ragen would stop to hunt, felling small game from great distance with his thin throwing spears.

Most nights they stayed in shelters noted in Graig's log, though twice they simply camped in the road. Like any animal, Ragen's mare was terrified by the stalking demons, but she did not try to pull free from her hobble.

'She deserves a name,' Arlen said, for the hundredth time, pointing at the steady horse.

'Fine, fine!' Ragen finally conceded, ruffling Arlen's hair. 'You can name her.'

Arlen smiled. 'Nighteye,' he said.

Ragen looked at the horse, and nodded. 'It's a good name,' he agreed.

9

Fort Miln

319 AR

 

 

 

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 whipping through the hills. Arlen looked back and saw the 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 offense,' 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 just like him 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, most every structure was wood, with foundations of piled stone and roofs of thatch with plates for wards. Here, most 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 Mother's Council ten years ago to have his merchant license 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 Keerin a purse of coins, which he caught 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 at 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 & 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 stories.

'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 of. '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 stories 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.

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 to Ragen like he was a king in a story.

'I thought we were going to stop by your house before visiting (he 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 too wore a blue coat, and ran to a bell rope at the base of a broad, marble stair. 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 grit 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 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 Mother's School. Why, it's Mothers that vote to choose a new duke when the old one passes!'

'Then why isn't 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 not a son 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 Mother's 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 him 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 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 stories 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. 'Nobles,' 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 Nobles,' 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 at bay 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 arched 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, Noble, and a seventh 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 Mother's Council swarmed her, along with the Tenders' acolytes.

The Nobles 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 Nobles 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 Nobles 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 Nobles lingered a moment, until Jone cracked her hands together. The retort 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. '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. 'And what did you say I would do when you gave me this news?' he asked Ragen.

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,' Euchor said. '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 opened 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 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!'

'Isn't 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. 'Messaging'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 make this about 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 wardcraflt, 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 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. A crescent of scarred flesh, long healed, showed 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. Messaging 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.'

SECTION II

MILN

320 to 325

After the Return