Peter Brett - The Warded Man

“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.”

“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.”