The Warded Man (23 page)

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 toward a cluster of old women standing ahead of the Merchants—“the Council of Mothers, waiting to give Euchor his day’s reports.”

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

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

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

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

They were halfway to the duke’s throne when a tall woman moved to intercept them. Her hair was kept back in a cloth wrap, and her face was pinched and lined with wrinkles so deep it looked as if wards were carved into her cheeks. She moved with 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, Royal, and an eighth breed of coreling. Don’t stop walking unless I do, or she’ll have you waiting in the stables while I see the duke.”

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

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

“His Grace doesn’t have time for every stray off the street, Ragen!” she hissed, hurrying to keep pace with the Messenger.

“Who is he?”

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

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

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

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

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

“At last, you deign to grace us with your presence,” the duke called out, though it seemed he was speaking more to the rest of the room than to Ragen. Indeed, the observation had the Royals nodding and murmuring among 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 signaled her servant to leave with the letters, and that took most of the court with her. The Royals lingered a moment, until Jone cracked her hands together. The 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 signaled the guards, who pulled the heavy doors closed, remaining inside. Unlike the men at the gate, these looked alert and professional. Jone moved to stand beside her lord.

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

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

“There is news from the Brook, Your Grace,” Ragen began.

“The Brook?” Euchor burst out. “What do I care about the Brook? What word from Rhinebeck?”

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

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

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

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

“No, my lord,” Ragen replied, “but …”

“Did Sunny Pasture open a coal mine?” Euchor cut him off.

“No, my lord.”

“Did they rediscover the lost combat wards?”

Ragen shook his head. “Of course not …”

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

“No.” Ragen scowled.

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

“A year and a half is too long,” Ragen dared to persist. “The folk need …”

“Go for free, then,” the duke cut him off, “so I can afford it.”

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

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

“Just
tell
me, Ragen! Yes or no?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ragen bowed in acknowledgment of the fact. “Duke Rhinebeck knows this,” he said. “He empowered me to make a counteroffer.”

“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 signaled the guards to open the doors, and the greater petitioners swarmed back into the room. The duke’s attention was already turned away from the Messenger.

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

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

One of the Merchants approached them. He was a bearlike 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 honorable 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 Warders’ 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.”