Peter Brett: The Warded Man

The Messenger looked at him a moment, then shrugged. “It’s Keerin’s first time so far out of the city,” he said. “He was brave enough when there was a group of us and he had a covered wagon to sleep in, but when we left the rest of our caravan behind in Angiers, he didn’t do near as well. He’s got day-jitters from the corelings, and it’s made him poor company.”

“You can’t tell,” Arlen said, looking back at the cartwheeling man.

“Jongleurs have their mummers’ tricks,” Ragen said. “They can pretend so hard to be something they’re not that they actually convince themselves of it for a time. Keerin pretended to be brave. The guild tested him for travel and he passed, but you never really know how people will hold up after two weeks on the open road until they do it for real.”

“How do you stay out on the roads at night?” Arlen asked. “Da says drawing wards in the dirt’s asking for trouble.”

“Your da is right,” Ragen said. “Look in that compartment by your feet.”

Arlen did, and produced a large bag of soft leather. Inside was a knotted rope, strung with lacquered wooden plates bigger than his hand. His eyes widened when he saw wards carved and painted into the wood.

Immediately, Arlen knew what it was: a portable warding circle, large enough to surround the cart and more besides. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Arlen said.

“They’re not easy to make,” the Messenger said. “Most Messengers spend their whole apprenticeship mastering the art. No wind or rain is going to smudge those wards. But even then, they’re not the same as having warded walls and a door.

“Ever see a coreling face-to-face, boy?” he asked, turning and looking at Arlen hard. “Watched it take a swipe at you with nowhere to run and nothing to protect you except magic you can’t see?” He shook his head. “Maybe I’m being too hard on Keerin. He handled his test all right. Screamed a bit, but that’s to be expected. Night after night is another matter. Takes its toll on some men, always worried that a stray leaf will land on a ward, and then …” He hissed suddenly and swiped a clawed hand at Arlen, laughing when the boy jumped.

Arlen ran his thumb over each smooth, lacquered ward, feeling their strength. There was one of the little plates for every foot of rope, much as there would be in any warding. He counted more than forty of them. “Can’t wind demons fly into a circle this big?” he asked. “Da puts posts up to keep them from landing in the fields.”

The man looked over at him, a little surprised. “Your da’s probably wasting his time,” he said. “Wind demons are strong fliers, but they need running space or something to climb and leap from in order to take off. Not much of either in a cornfield, so they’d be reluctant to land, unless they saw something too tempting to resist, like some little boy sleeping in the field on a dare.” He looked at Arlen in that same way Jeph did, when warning Arlen that the corelings were serious business. As if he didn’t know.

“Wind demons also need to turn in wide arcs,” Ragen continued, “and most of them have a wingspan larger than that circle. It’s possible that one could get in, but I’ve never seen it happen. If it does, though …” He gestured to the long, thick spear he kept next to him.

“You can kill a coreling with a spear?” Arlen asked.

“Probably not,” Ragen replied, “but I’ve heard that you can stun them by pinning them against your wards.” He chuckled. “I hope I never have to find out.”

Arlen looked at him, wide-eyed.

Ragen looked back at him, his face suddenly serious. “Messaging’s dangerous work, boy,” he said.

Arlen stared at him a long time. “It would be worth it, to see the Free Cities,” he said at last. “Tell me true, what’s Fort Miln like?”

“It’s the richest and most beautiful city in the world,” Ragen replied, lifting his mail sleeve to reveal a tattoo on his forearm of a city nestled between two mountains. “The Duke’s Mines run rich with salt, metal, and coal. Its walls and rooftops are so well warded, it’s rare for the house wards to even be tested. When the sun shines on its walls, it puts the mountains themselves to shame.”

“Never seen a mountain,” Arlen said, marveling as he traced the tattoo with a finger. “My da says they’re just big hills.”

“You see that hill?” Ragen asked, pointing north of the road.

Arlen nodded. “Boggin’s Hill. You can see the whole Brook from up there.”

Ragen nodded. “You know what a ‘hundred’ means, Arlen?” he asked.

Arlen nodded again. “Ten pairs of hands.”

“Well, even a small mountain is bigger than a hundred of your Boggin’s Hills piled atop each other, and the mountains of Miln are not small.”

Arlen’s eyes widened as he tried to contemplate such a height. “They must touch the sky,” he said.

“Some are above it,” Ragen bragged. “Atop them, you can look down at the clouds.”

“I want to see that one day,” Arlen said.

“You could join the Messengers’ Guild, when you’re old enough,” Ragen said.

Arlen shook his head. “Da says the people that leave are deserters,” he said. “He spits when he says it.”

“Your da doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Ragen said. “Spitting doesn’t make things so. Without Messengers, even the Free Cities would crumble.”

“I thought the Free Cities were safe?” Arlen asked.

“Nowhere is safe, Arlen. Not truly. Miln has more people and can absorb the deaths more easily than a place like Tibbet’s Brook, but the corelings still take a toll each year.”

“How many people are in Miln?” Arlen asked. “We have nine hundreds in Tibbet’s Brook, and Sunny Pasture up the ways is supposed to be almost as big.”

“We have over thirty thousands in Miln,” Ragen said proudly.

Arlen looked at him, confused.

“A thousand is ten hundreds,” the Messenger supplied.

Arlen thought a moment, then shook his head. “There ent that many people in the world,” he said.

“There are and more,” Ragen said. “There’s a wide world out there, for those willing to brave the dark.”

Arlen didn’t answer, and they rode in silence for a time.

It took about an hour and a half for the trundling cart to reach Town Square. The center of the Brook, Town Square held a few dozen warded wooden houses for those whose trade did not have them working in the fields or rice paddies, fishing, or cutting wood. It was here one came to find the tailor and the baker, the farrier, the cooper, and the rest.

At the center lay the square where people would gather, and the biggest building in the Brook, the general store. It had a large open front room that housed tables and the bar, an even larger storeroom in back, and a cellar below, filled with most everything of value in the Brook.

The kitchen was run by Hog’s daughters, Dasy and Catrin. Two credits could buy a meal to leave you stuffed, but Silvy called old Hog a cheat, since two credits could buy enough raw grain for a week. Still, plenty of unmarried men paid the price, and not all for the food. Dasy was homely and Catrin fat, but Uncle Cholie said the men who married them would be set for life.

Everyone in the Brook brought Hog their goods, be it corn or meat or fur, pottery or cloth, furniture or tools. Hog took the items, counted them up, and gave the customers credits to buy other things at the store.

Things always seemed to cost a lot more than Hog paid for them, though. Arlen knew enough numbers to see that. There were some famous arguments when people came to sell, but Hog set the prices, and usually got his way. Just about everyone hated Hog, but they needed him all the same, and were more likely to brush his coat and open his doors than spit when he passed.