“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 simila
r 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.
“All right,” he agreed finally. “Seven years.”
SECTION II
MILN
320-325 AR
CHAPTER 10
APPRENTICE
320 AR
“THERE’S OUR FRIEND AGAIN,” said Gaims, gesturing into the darkness from their post on the wall.
“Right on time,” Woron agreed, coming up next to him. “What do you s’pose he wants?”
“Empty my pockets,” Gaims said, “you’ll find no answers.”
The two guards leaned against the warded rail of the watchtower and watched as the one-armed rock demon materialized before the gate. It was big, even to the eyes of Milnese guards, who saw more of rock demons than any other type.
While the other demons were still getting their bearings, the one-armed demon moved with purpose, snuffling about the gate, searching. Then it straightened and struck the gate, testing the wards. Magic flared and threw the demon back, but it was undeterred. Slowly, the demon moved along the wall, striking again and again, searching for a weakness until it was out of sight.
Hours later, a crackle of energy signaled the demon’s return from the opposite direction. The guards at other posts said that the demon circled the city each night, attacking every ward. When it reached the gate once more, it settled back on its haunches, staring patiently at the city.
Gaims and Woron were used to this scene, having witnessed it every night for the past year. They had even begun to look forward to it, passing the time on their watch by betting on how long one Arm took to circle the city, or whether he would head east or west to do so.
“I’m half tempted to let ’im in, just t’see what he’s after,” Woron mused.
“Don’t even joke about that,” Gaims warned. “If the watch commander hears talk like that, he’ll have both of us in irons, quarrying stone for the next year.”
His partner grunted. “Still,” he said, “you have to wonder …”
That first year in Miln, his twelfth, passed quickly for Arlen as he grew into his role as an apprentice Warder. Cob’s first task had been to teach him to read. Arlen knew wards never before seen in Miln, and Cob wanted them committed to paper as soon as possible.
Arlen took to reading voraciously, wondering how he had ever gotten along without it. He disappeared into books for hours at a time, his lips moving slightly at first, but soon he was turning pages rapidly, his eyes darting across the page.
Cob had no cause to complain; Arlen worked harder than any apprentice he had ever known, staying up late in the night etching wards. Cob would often go to his bed thinking of the full day’s work to come, only to find it completed when the sun’s first light flooded the shop.
After learning his letters, Arlen was put to work cataloguing his personal repertoire of wards, complete with descriptions, into a book the master purchased for him. Paper was expensive in the sparsely wooded lands of Miln, and a whole book was something few commoners ever saw, but Cob scoffed at the price.
“Even the worst grimoire’s worth a hundred times the paper it’s written on,” he said.
“Grimoire?” Arlen asked.
“A book of wards,” Cob said. “Every Warder has theirs, and they guard their secrets carefully.” Arlen treasured the valuable gift, filling its pages with a slow and steady hand.
When Arlen had finished plumbing his memory, Cob studied the book in shock. “Creator, boy, do you have any idea what this book is worth?” he demanded.
Arlen looked up from the ward he was chiseling into a stone post, and shrugged. “Any graybeard in Tibbet’s Brook could teach you those wards,” he said.
“That may be,” Cob replied, “but what’s common in Tibbet’s Brook is buried treasure in Miln. This ward here.” He pointed to a page. “Can it truly turn firespit into a cool breeze?”
Arlen laughed. “My mam used to love that one,” he said. “She wished the flame demons could come right up to the windows on hot summer nights to cool the house with their breath.”
“Amazing,” Cob said, shaking his head. “I want you to copy this a few more times, Arlen. It’s going to make you a very rich man.”
“How do you mean?” Arlen asked.
“People would pay a fortune for a copy of this,” Cob said. “Maybe we shouldn’t even sell at all. We could be the most sought-after Warders in the city if we kept them secret.”
Arlen frowned. “It’s not right to keep them secret,” he said. “My da always said wards are for everyone.”
“Every Warder has his secrets, Arlen,” Cob said. “This is how we make our living.”
“We make our living etching wardposts and painting door-jambs,” Arlen disagreed, “not hoarding secrets that can save lives. Should we deny succor to those too poor to pay?”
“Of course not,” Cob said, “but this is different.”
“How?” Arlen asked. “We didn’t have Warders in Tibbet’s Brook. We all warded our own homes, and those who were better at it helped those who were worse without asking anything in return. Why should we? It’s not us against each other, it’s us against the demons!”
“Fort Miln isn’t like Tibbet’s Brook, boy.” Cob scowled. “Here, things cost money. If you don’t have any money, you become a Beggar. I have a skill, like any baker or stonemason. Why shouldn’t I charge for it?”
Arlen sat quietly for a time. “Cob, why ent you rich?” he asked at last.
“What?”
“Like Ragen,” Arlen clarified. “You said you used to be a Messenger for the duke. Why don’t you live in a manse and have servants do everything for you? Why do you do this at all?”
Cob blew out a long breath. “Money is a fickle thing, Arlen,” he said. “One moment you can have more than you know what to do with, and the next … you can find yourself begging food on the street.”
Arlen thought of the beggars he saw on his first day in Miln. He had seen many more since, stealing dung to burn for warmth, sleeping in public warded shelters, begging for food.
“What happened to your money, Cob?” he asked.
“I met a man who said he could build a road,” Cob s
aid. “A warded road, stretching from here to Angiers.” Arlen moved closer and sat on a stool, his attention rapt.
“They’ve tried to build roads before,” Cob went on, “to the Duke’s Mines in the mountains, or to Harden’s Grove to the south. Short distances, less than a full day, but enough to make a fortune for the builder. They always failed. If there’s a hole in a net, no matter how small, corelings will find it eventually. And once they’re in …” He shook his head. “I told the man this, but he was adamant. He had a plan. It would work. All he needed was money.”
Cob looked at Arlen. “Every city is short of something,” he said, “and has too much of something else. Miln has metal and stone, but no wood. Angiers, the reverse. Both are short of crops and livestock, while Rizon has more than they need, but no good lumber or metal for tools. Lakton has fish in abundance, but little else.
“I know you must think me a fool,” he said, shaking his head, “for considering something everyone from the duke on down had dismissed as impossible, but the idea stuck with me. I kept thinking, What if he could? Isn’t that worth any risk?”
“I don’t think you’re a fool,” Arlen said.
“Which is why I keep most of your pay in trust,” Cob chuckled. “You’d give it away, same as I did.”
“What happened to the road?” Arlen pressed.
“Corelings happened,” Cob said. “They slaughtered the man and all the workers I hired him, burned the wardposts and plans … they destroyed it all. I had invested everything in that road, Arlen. Even letting my servants go wasn’t enough to pay my debts. I made barely enough money selling my manse to clear a loan to buy this shop, and I’ve been here ever since.”
They sat for a time, both of them lost in images of what that night must have been like, both of them seeing in their mind’s eye the corelings dancing amid the flames and carnage.
“Do you still think the dream was worth the risk?” Arlen asked. “All the cities sharing?”
“To this day,” Cob replied. “Even when my back aches from carting wardposts and I can’t stand my own cooking.”
The Warded Man Page 21