Peter Brett: The Warded Man

Everyone else in the Brook worked throughout the sun, and barely saw all their needs met, but Hog and his daughters always had fleshy cheeks, rounded bellies, and clean new clothes. Arlen had to wrap himself in a rug whenever his mother took his overalls to wash.

Ragen and Arlen tied off the mules in front of the store and went inside. The bar was empty. Usually the air inside the taproom was thick with bacon fat, but there was no smell of cooking from the kitchen today.

Arlen rushed ahead of the Messenger to the bar. Rusco had a small bronze bell there, brought with him when he came from the Free Cities. Arlen loved that bell. He slapped his hand down on it and grinned at the clear sound.

There was a thump in the back, and Rusco came through the curtains behind the bar. He was a big man, still strong and straight-backed at sixty, but a soft gut hung around his middle, and his iron-gray hair was creeping back from his lined forehead. He wore light trousers and leather shoes with a clean white cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled halfway up his thick forearms. His white apron was spotless, as always.

“Arlen Bales,” he said with a patient smile, seeing the boy. “Did you come just to play with the bell, or do you have some business?”

“The business is mine,” Ragen said, stepping forward. “You Rusco Hog?”

“Just Rusco will do,” the man said. “The townies slapped the ‘Hog’ on, though not to my face. Can’t stand to see a man prosper.”

“That’s twice,” Ragen mused.

“Say again?” Rusco said.

“Twice that Graig’s journey log has led me astray,” Ragen said. “I called Selia ‘Barren’ to her face this morning.”

“Ha!” Rusco laughed. “Did you now? Well, that’s worth a drink on the house, if anything is. What did you say your name was?”

“Ragen,” the Messenger said, dropping his heavy satchel and taking a seat at the bar. Rusco tapped a keg, and plucked a slatted wooden mug off a hook.

The ale was thick and honey-colored, and foamed to a white head atop the mug. Rusco filled one for Ragen and another for himself. Then he glanced at Arlen, and filled a smaller cup. “Take that to a table and let your elders talk at the bar,” he said. “And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t tell your mum I gave it to you.”

Arlen beamed, and ran off with his prize before Rusco had a chance to reconsider. He had snuck a taste of ale from his father’s mug at festivals, but had never had a cup of his own.

“I was starting to worry no one was coming ever again,” he heard Rusco tell Ragen.

“Graig took a chill just before he was to leave last fall,” Ragen said, drinking deeply. “His Herb Gatherer told him to put the trip off until he got better, but then winter set in, and he got worse and worse. In the end, he asked me to take his route until the guild could find another. I had to take a caravan of salt to Angiers anyway, so I added an extra cart and swung this way before heading back north.”

Rusco took his mug and filled it again. “To Graig,” he said, “a fine Messenger, and a dangerous haggler.” Ragen nodded and the two men clapped mugs and drank.

“Another?” Rusco asked, when Ragen slammed his mug back down on the bar.

“Graig wrote in his log that you were a dangerous haggler, too,” Ragen said, “and that you’d try to get me drunk first.”

Rusco chuckled, and refilled the mug. “After the haggling, I’ll have no need to serve these on the house,” he said, handing it to Ragen with a fresh head.

“You will if you want your mail to reach Miln,” Ragen said with a grin, accepting the mug.

“I can see you’re going to be as tough as Graig ever was,” Rusco grumbled, filling his own mug. “There,” he said, when it foamed over, “we can both haggle drunk.” They laughed, and clashed mugs again.

“What news of the Free Cities?” Rusco asked. “The Krasians still determined to destroy themselves?”

Ragen shrugged. “By all accounts. I stopped going to Krasia a few years ago, when I married. Too far, and too dangerous.”

“So the fact that they cover their women in blankets has nothing to do with it?” Rusco asked.

Ragen laughed. “Doesn’t help,” he said, “but it’s mostly how they think all Northerners, even Messengers, are cowards for not spending our nights trying to get ourselves cored.”

“Maybe they’d be less inclined to fight if they looked at their women more,” Rusco mused. “How about Angiers and Miln? The dukes still bickering?”

“As always,” Ragen said. “Euchor needs Angiers’ wood to fuel his refineries, and grain to feed his people. Rhinebeck needs Miln’s metal and salt. They have to trade to survive, but instead of making it easy on themselves, they spend all their time trying to cheat each other, especially when a shipment is lost to corelings on the road. Last summer, demons hit a caravan of steel and salt. They killed the drivers, but left most of the cargo intact. Rhinebeck retrieved it, and refused to pay, claiming salvage rights.”

“Duke Euchor must have been furious,” Rusco said.

“Livid,” Ragen agreed. “I was the one that brought him the news. He went red in the face, and swore Angiers wouldn’t see another ounce of salt until Rhinebeck paid.”

“Did Rhinebeck pay?” Rusco asked, leaning in eagerly.

Ragen shook his head. “They did their best to starve each other for a few months, and then the Merchants’ Guild paid, just to get their shipments out before the winter came and they rotted in storage. Rhinebeck is angry at them now, for giving in to Euchor, but his face was saved and the shipments were moving again, which is all that mattered to anyone other than those two dogs.”

“Wise to watch what you call the dukes,” Rusco warned, “even this far out.”

“Who’s going to tell them?” Ragen asked. “You? The boy?”

He gestured at Arlen. Both men laughed.

“And now I have to bring Euchor news of Riverbridge, which will make things worse,” Ragen said.

“The town on the border of Miln,” Rusco said, “barely a day out from Angiers. I have contacts there.”

“Not anymore, you don’t,” Ragen said pointedly, and the men were quiet for a time.

“Enough bad news,” Ragen said, hauling his satchel onto the bar. Rusco considered it dubiously.

“That doesn’t look like salt,” he said, “and I doubt I have that much mail.”

“You have six letters, and an even dozen packages,” Ragen said, handing Rusco a sheaf of folded paper. “It’s all listed here, along with all the other letters in the satchel and packages on the cart to be distributed. I gave Selia a copy of the list,” he warned.

“What do I want with that list, or your mailbag?” Rusco asked.

“The Speaker is occupied, and won’t be able to distribute the mail and read to those that can’t. She volunteered you.”

“And how am I to be compensated for spending my business hours reading to the townies?” Rusco asked.

“The satisfaction of a good deed to your neighbors?” Ragen asked.

Rusco snorted. “I didn’t come to Tibbet’s Brook to make friends,” he said. “I’m a businessman, and I do a lot for this town.”

“Do you?” Ragen asked.

“Damn right,” Rusco said. “Before I came to this town, all they did was barter .” He made the word a curse, and spat on the floor. “They collected the fruits of their labor and gathered in the square every Seventhday, arguing over how many beans were worth an ear of corn, or how much rice you had to give the cooper to make you a barrel to put your rice in. And if you didn’t get what you needed on Seventhday, you had to wait until the next week, or go door to door. Now everyone can come here, any day, any time from sunup to sundown, and trade for credits to get whatever else they need.”