Peter Brett: The Warded Man

“The town savior,” Ragen said wryly. “And you asking nothing in return.”

“Nothing but a tidy profit,” Rusco said with a grin.

“And how often do the villagers try to string you up for a cheat?” Ragen asked.

Rusco’s eyes narrowed. “Too often, considering half of them can’t count past their fingers, and the other half can only add their toes to that,” he said.

“Selia said the next time it happens, you’re on your own”—Ragen’s friendly voice had suddenly gone hard—“unless you do your part. There’s plenty on the far side of town suffering worse than having to read the mail.”

Rusco frowned, but he took the list and carried the heavy bag into his storeroom.

“How bad is it, really?” he asked when he returned.

“Bad,” Ragen said. “Twenty-seven so far, and a few still unaccounted for.”

“Creator,” Rusco swore, drawing a ward in the air in front of him. “I had thought a family, at worst.”

“If only,” Ragen said.

They were both silent for a moment, as was decent, then looked up at each other as one.

“You have this year’s salt?” Rusco asked.

“You have the duke’s rice?” Ragen replied.

“Been holding it all winter, you being so late,” Rusco said.

Ragen’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh, it’s still good!” Rusco said, his hands coming up suddenly, as if pleading. “I’ve kept it sealed and dry, and there are no vermin in my cellar!”

“I’ll need to be sure, you understand,” Ragen said.

“Of course, of course,” Rusco said. “Arlen, fetch that lamp!” he ordered, pointing the boy toward the corner of the bar.

Arlen scurried over to the lantern, picking up the striker. He lit the wick and lowered the glass reverently. He had never been trusted to hold glass before. It was colder than he imagined, but quickly grew warm as the flame licked it.

“Carry it down to the cellar for us,” Rusco ordered. Arlen tried to contain his excitement. He had always wanted to see behind the bar. They said if everyone in the Brook put all their possessions in one pile, it would not rival the wonders of Hog’s cellar.

He watched as Rusco pulled a ring on his floor, opening a wide trap. Arlen came forward quickly, worried old Hog would change his mind. He went down the creaking steps, holding the lantern high to illuminate the way. As he did, the light touched on stacks of crates and barrels from floor to ceiling, running in even rows stretching back past the edges of the light. The floor was wooden to prevent corelings from rising directly into the cellar from the Core, but there were still wards carved into the racks along the walls. Old Hog was careful with his treasures.

The storekeeper led the way through the aisles to the sealed barrels in the back. “They look unspoiled,” Ragen said, inspecting the wood. He considered a moment, then chose at random. “That one,” he said, pointing to a barrel.

Rusco grunted and hauled out the barrel in question. Some people called his work easy, but his arms were as hard and thick as any that swung an axe or scythe. He broke the seal and popped the top off the barrel, scooping rice into a shallow pan for Ragen to inspect.

“Good Marsh rice,” he told the Messenger, “and not a weevil to be seen, nor sign of rot. This will fetch a high price in Miln, especially after so long.” Ragen grunted and nodded, so the cask was resealed and they returned upstairs.

They argued for some time over how many barrels of rice the heavy sacks of salt on the cart were worth. In the end, neither of them seemed happy, but they shook hands on the deal.

Rusco called his daughters, and they all went out to the cart to begin unloading the salt. Arlen tried lifting a bag, but it was far too heavy, and he staggered and fell, dropping it.

“Be careful!” Dasy scolded, slapping the back of his head.

“If you can’t lift, then get the door!” Catrin barked. She herself had one sack over her shoulder and another tucked under her meaty arm. Arlen scrambled to his feet and rushed to hold the portal for her.

“Fetch Ferd Miller and tell him we’ll pay five … make it four credits for every sack he grinds,” Rusco told Arlen. Most everyone in the Brook worked for Hog, one way or another, but the Squarefolk most of all. “Five if he packs it in barrels with rice to keep it dry.”

“Ferd is off in the Cluster,” Arlen said. “Most everyone is.”

Rusco grunted, but did not reply. Soon enough the cart was empty, save for a few boxes and sacks that did not contain salt. Rusco’s daughters eyed those hungrily, but said nothing.

“We’ll carry the rice up from the cellar tonight and keep it in the back room until you’re ready to head back to Miln,” Rusco said, when the last sack was hauled inside.

“Thank you,” Ragen said.

“The duke’s business is done, then?” Rusco asked with a grin, his eyes flicking knowingly to the remaining items on the cart.

“The duke’s business, yes,” Ragen said, grinning in return. Arlen hoped they would give him another ale while they haggled. It made him feel light-headed, like he had caught a chill, but without the coughing and sneezing and aches. He liked the feeling, and wanted to try it again.

He helped carry the remaining items into the taproom, and Catrin brought out a platter of sandwiches thick with meat. Arlen was given a second cup of ale to wash it down, and old Hog told him he could have two credits in the book for his work. “I won’t tell your parents,” Hog said, “but if you spend it on ale and they catch you, you’ll be working off the grief your mum gives me.” Arlen nodded eagerly. He’d never had credits of his own to spend at the store.

After lunch, Rusco and Ragen went over to the bar and opened up the other items the Messenger had brought. Arlen’s eyes flared as each treasure was presented. There were bolts of cloth finer than anything he had ever seen; metal tools and pins, ceramics, and exotic spices. There were even a few cups made of bright, sparkling glass.

Hog seemed less impressed. “Graig had a better haul last year,” he said. “I’ll give you … a hundred credits for the lot.” Arlen’s jaw dropped. A hundred credits! Ragen could own half the Brook for that.

Ragen didn’t care for the offer, though. His eyes went hard again, and he slammed his hand down on the table. Dasy and Catrin looked up from their cleaning at the sound.

“To the Core with your credit!” he growled. “I’m not one of your bumpkins, and unless you want the guild to know you for a cheat, you’ll not mistake me for one again.”

“No hard feelings!” Rusco laughed, patting the air in that placating way he had. “Had to try … you understand. They still like gold up there in Miln?” he asked with a sly smile.

“Same as everywhere,” Ragen said. He was still frowning, but the anger had drained from his voice.

“Not out here,” Rusco said. He went back behind the curtain, and they could hear him rummaging around, raising his voice to still be heard. “Out here, if you can’t eat something, or wear it, paint a ward with it, or use it to till your field, it’s not worth much of anything.” He returned a moment later with a large cloth sack he deposited on the counter with a clink.

“People here have forgotten that gold moves the world,” he went on, reaching into the bag and pulling out two heavy yellow coins, which he waved in Ragen’s face. “The miller’s kids were using these as game pieces! Game pieces! I told them I’d trade the gold for a carved wood game set I had in the back; they thought I was doing them a favor! Ferd even came by the next day to thank me!” He laughed a deep belly laugh. Arlen felt like he should be offended by that laugh, but he wasn’t quite sure why. He had played the Millers’ game many times, and it seemed worth more than two metal disks, however shiny they might be.