Peter Brett: The Warded Man

He looked up at his father. “Don’t you feel it? Don’t you want to fight sometimes?”

“Of course I do, Arlen,” Jeph said. “But not for no reason. When it matters, when it really matters, all men are willing to fight. Animals run when they can, and fight when they must, and people are no different. But that spirit should only come out when needed.

“But if it was you out there with the corelings,” he said, “or your mam, I swear I would fight like mad before I let them get near you. Do you understand the difference?”

Arlen nodded. “I think so.”

“Good man,” Jeph said, squeezing his shoulder.

Arlen’s dreams that night were filled with images of hills that touched the sky, and ponds so big you could put a whole town on the surface. He saw yellow sand stretching as far as his eyes could see, and a walled fortress hidden in the trees.

But he saw it all between a pair of legs that swayed lazily before his eyes. He looked up, and saw his own face turning purple in the noose.

He woke with a start, his pallet damp with sweat. It was still dark, but there was a faint lightening on the horizon, where the indigo sky held a touch of red. He lit a candle stub and pulled on his overalls, stumbling out to the common room. He found a crust to chew on as he took out the egg basket and milk jugs, putting them by the door.

“You’re up early,” said a voice behind him. He turned, startled, to find Norine staring at him. Marea was still on her pallet, though she tossed in her sleep.

“The days don’t get any longer while you sleep,” Arlen said.

Norine nodded. “So my husband used to say,” she agreed. “‘Baleses and Cutters can’t work by candlelight, like the Squares,’ he’d say.”

“I have a lot to do,” Arlen said, peeking through the shutter to see how long he had before he could cross the wards. “The Jongleur is supposed to perform at high sun.”

“Of course,” Norine agreed. “When I was your age, the Jongleur was the most important thing in the world to me, too. I’ll help you with your chores.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Arlen said. “Da says you should rest.”

Norine shook her head. “Rest just makes me think of things best left unthought,” she said. “If I’m to stay with you, I should earn my keep. After chopping wood in the Cluster, how hard could it be to slop pigs and plant corn?”

Arlen shrugged, and handed her the egg basket.

With Norine’s help, the chores went by fast. She was a quick learner, and no stranger to hard work and heavy lifting. By the time the smell of eggs and bacon wafted from the house, the animals were all fed, the eggs collected, and the cows milked.

“Stop squirming on the bench,” Silvy told Arlen as they ate.

“Young Arlen can’t wait to go see the Jongleur,” Norine advised.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Jeph said, and Arlen’s face fell.

“What!” Arlen cried. “But …”

“No buts,” Jeph said. “A lot of work went undone yesterday, and I promised Selia I’d drop by the Cluster in the afternoon to help out.”

Arlen pushed his plate away and stomped into his room.

“Let the boy go,” Norine said when he was gone. “Marea and I will help out here.” Marea looked up at the sound of her name, but went back to playing with her food a moment later.

“Arlen had a hard day, yesterday,” Silvy said. She bit her lip. “We all did. Let the Jongleur put a smile on his face. Surely there’s nothing that can’t wait.”

Jeph nodded after a moment. “Arlen!” he called. When the boy showed his sullen face, he asked, “How much is old Hog charging to see the Jongleur?”

“Nothing,” Arlen said quickly, not wanting to give his father reason to refuse. “On account of how I helped carry stuff from the Messenger’s cart.” It wasn’t exactly true, and there was a good chance Hog would be angry that he forgot to tell people, but maybe if he spread word on the walk over, he could bring enough people for his two credits at the store to get him in.

“Old Hog always acts generous right after the Messenger comes,” Norine said.

“Ought to, after how he’s been fleecing us all winter,” Silvy replied.

“All right, Arlen, you can go,” Jeph said. “Meet me in the Cluster afterwards.”

The walk to Town Square took about two hours if you followed the path. Nothing more than a wagon track of hard-packed dirt that Jeph and a few other locals kept clear, it went well out of the way to the bridge at the shallowest part of the brook. Nimble and quick, Arlen could cut the trip in half by skipping across the slick rocks jutting from the water.

Today, he needed the extra time more than ever, so he could make stops along the way. He raced along the muddy bank at breakneck speed, dodging treacherous roots and scrub with the sure-footed confidence of one who had followed the trail countless times.

He popped back out of the woods as he passed the farmhouses on the way, but there was no one to be found. Everyone was either out in the fields or back at the Cluster helping out.

It was getting close to high sun when he reached Fishing Hole. A few of the Fishers had their boats out on the small pond, but Arlen didn’t see much point in shouting to them. Otherwise, the Hole was deserted, too.

He was feeling glum by the time he got to Town Square. Hog might have seemed nicer than usual yesterday, but Arlen had seen what he was like when someone cost him profit. There was no way he was going to let Arlen see the Jongleur for just two credits. He’d be lucky if the storekeep didn’t take a switch to him.

But when he reached the square, he found over three hundred people gathered from all over the Brook. There were Fishers and Marshes and Boggins and Bales. Not to mention the town locals, Squares, Tailors, Millers, Bakers, and all. None had come from Southwatch, of course. Folk there shunned Jongleurs.

“Arlen, my boy!” Hog called, seeing him approach. “I’ve saved you a spot up front, and you’ll go home tonight with a sack of salt! Well done!”

Arlen looked at him curiously, until he saw Ragen, standing next to Hog. The Messenger winked at him.

“Thank you,” Arlen said, when Hog went off to mark another arrival in his ledger. Dasy and Catrin were selling food and ale for the show.

“People deserve a show,” Ragen said with a shrug. “But not without clearing it with your Tender, it seems.” He pointed to Keerin, who was deep in conversation with Tender Harral.

“Don’t be selling any of that Plague nonsense to my flock!” Harral said, poking Keerin hard in the chest. He was twice the Jongleur’s weight, and none of it fat.

“Nonsense?” Keerin asked, paling. “In Miln, the Tenders will string up any Jongleur that doesn’t tell of the Plague!”

“I don’t care what they do in the Free Cities,” Harral said. “These’re good people, and they have it hard enough without you telling ’em their suffering’s because they ent pious enough!”

“What …?” Arlen began, but Keerin broke off, heading to the center of the square.

“Best find a seat quick,” Ragen advised.

As Hog promised, Arlen got a seat right in front, in the area usually left for the younger children. The others looked on enviously, and Arlen felt very special. It was rare for anyone to envy him.

The Jongleur was tall, like all Milnese, dressed in a patchwork of bright colors that looked like they were stolen from the dyer’s scrap bin. He had a wispy goatee, the same carrot color as his hair, but the mustache never quite met the beard, and the whole thing looked like it might wash off with a good scrubbing. Everyone, especially the women, talked in wonder about his bright hair and green eyes.