The Warded Man (24 page)

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

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

“Could you find him an apprenticeship, then?” the Messenger asked.

“Can he pay the apprenticeship fee?” Vincin asked.

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

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

Ragen scowled. “Thanks all the same,” he said, ushering Arlen away.

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

“I can’t believe you talked to the duke like that,” Arlen said as they went.

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

“It worked with Euchor,” Arlen agreed.

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

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

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

“Ent an apprentice a Servant?” Arlen asked.

“Not in the slightest,” Ragen said. “Apprentices are Merchant class. They master a trade and then go into business for themselves, or with another master. Servants will never be anything but, unless they marry up, and I’ll be corespawned 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 center 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 turn this back on me!” Elissa hissed. “When you decided not to take Arlen back to Tibbet’s Brook,
you
took responsibility for him! It’s time to own up to that and stop looking for someone else to care for him.”

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

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

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

“Apprenticeships aren’t meant to be comfortable,” Ragen said. “He’ll need to be there from dawn till dusk if he’s to master wardcraft, and if he follows through with his plans to be a 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 defense, “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 molded from metal. There were carved posts for farmers’ fields, and a portable circle like Ragen’s. He tried to memorize the wards he saw, but there were just too many.

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

“This is Master Cob,” Ragen introduced, gesturing to a man who was perhaps sixty. Short for a Milnese, he had the look of a strong man gone to fat. A thick gray beard, shot through with signs of its former black, covered his face, and his close-cropped hair was thin atop 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 traveled 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 Messen ger. 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.