Peter Brett - Barren

Jeph broke away from a group of guests when he noticed Selia arrive. ‘Speaker.’

‘You’re a Speaker now too, Jeph Bales,’ Selia reminded him. ‘You can call me Selia.’

Jeph shook his head. ‘Ent ready for that. Not looking to lead this town.’

‘Ready or not, Jeph Bales, that’s what you’re doing. There’s more to leading than fancy words. Folk need an example, and you’ve impressed everyone with this monstrosity you’ve built.’

‘Wait till sunset,’ Jeph said.

There was a shout, and they saw Mack Pasture storming away from Hog, who had his arms crossed. Behind him, two store security guards loomed.

Mack headed their way and Selia sighed. Pasture had become a thorn in everyone’s side since he was voted off the council as Speaker for the farms in favour of Jeph.

‘Everything all right, Pasture?’ Selia called.

‘No, it corespawned ent!’ Mack cried. ‘Hog won’t sell me a warded spear on credit.’

‘Could have had your own,’ Jeph said, ‘you’d had the stones to stand when the Messenger came.’ There was no divide in town deeper than those who wanted to protect Renna Tanner and those who voted her into the night.

‘Din’t need it,’ Mack snapped, ‘till Hog bought the old Tanner farm and sent store security to sweep the property. Sent all the corelings runnin’ my way, scarin’ the cattle and apt to overload the wards. And now he won’t so much as rent me a spear.’

Selia pursed her lips. She had little more sympathy for Mack than Jeph, but her father’s advice sounded in her head.

Town Speaker speaks for everyone, not just the folk they like.

‘I’ll have the militia out tomorrow night to start clearing your property,’ Selia promised.

Next to arrive was Brine Broadshoulders with his adopted son Manie Cutter. Selia remembered the boy, shivering at her table the night corelings breached the wards of the Cluster by the Woods in 319 AR. Manie was a man grown now, tall and heavily muscled, with a warded axe mattock strapped to his back. He and his father led a score of giant Cutters onto Jeph’s property.

It was afternoon before the Fishers made their way up the road. Raddock Lawry, their Speaker, was older than Selia, his thick beard stark white, face deep with crags.

Raddock’s eyes widened when he saw Selia. She’d shed decades since he saw her last, now looking much as she had when Raddock tried to court her, fifty years ago. ‘Guess it shouldn’t surprise me you’ve exploited the unnatural too, Selia.’

Selia felt a flash of anger. ‘I’ve done nothing but stand up for this town when you and yours were too stubborn.’

So much for speaking for everyone. Anger came easily where Raddock was concerned.

‘Punishing Fishers is how you stand up for the town, Speaker?’ Garric Fisher was not so old, taller than Selia and half again her weight. He leaned in, trying to intimidate, but Selia hadn’t scared easily when she was old and her bones ached. She sure as the Core didn’t now.

‘Ent punishing anyone.’ Selia’s eyes flicked over his stance, deciding how best to put him on the ground without breaking anything. ‘Been sending militia to keep Fishing Hole safe, like we agreed.’

‘Ay, for the Duke’s tithe worth of fish!’ Raddock growled. ‘While your militia bullies and robs us.’

Selia blinked. ‘Come again?’

‘Drunk on demon magic and looking down on regular folk,’ Raddock said. ‘Garric’s got Boggins pissing on his fence and leaving demonshit on his doorstep. Other night, someone staked a coreling in my yard. Turned into a rippin’ bonfire when the sun came up.’

None of this was surprising. The Fishers had turned Tibbet’s Brook on its head last year, and a lot of folk resented them for it. Raddock wasn’t wrong about what magic did to folk, whetting emotions already sharp.

She blew a breath through her nostrils. ‘Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Raddock. I’ll put a stop to that nonsense straight away.’

‘Stopping it ent enough, Selia,’ Raddock said. ‘Want to see some punishment. Stam Tailor had Maddy Fisher below decks in her father’s boat!’

Selia clenched a fist, imagining she was squeezing Stam’s throat. ‘Girl wasn’t willing?’

‘Don’t matter!’ Raddock snapped. ‘She’s thirty summers his junior! It’s an abomination.’

Selia’s eyes flicked to Lesa, and this time the girl met the look proudly. She stood with the rest of the Square militia, all of them ready to pounce if the Fishers got out of hand. Raddock caught the glance, taking in the militia with a scowl. The Fishers brought a dozen men with them, but both sides knew they were no match for warriors who killed demons each night.

‘Maddy’s got nineteen summers, Raddock,’ Selia said. ‘Ent for you to say who she should be kissing.’

‘What about her da?’ Raddock demanded. ‘Tried to break it up and Stam blacked his eye.’

Selia pursed her lips. ‘I’ll have a talk with Stam and get to the bottom of it. If it’s like you say, he’ll make it right.’

‘Needs more than talk, Selia,’ Raddock said. ‘Law calls for a whippin’ in the square.’

Selia shook her head. ‘Last time we tied someone up in the square, whole town turned upside down. We’re better than that.’

‘Always an excuse why Fishers don’t get justice,’ Raddock sneered. ‘Ent even botherin’ to pretend the town council means spit any more.’

‘No one’s saying that,’ Selia said. ‘But we don’t take every dispute to the council, Raddock. Might be this can settle if Stam apologizes, does right by Maddy, and makes some fresh sails for Fishing Hole.’

‘Don’t want rippin’ sails,’ Raddock growled.

‘Of course not,’ Selia said. ‘All you ever want is blood, Raddock. Ent changed in fifty years.’

Raddock’s face tightened, wrinkles becoming fissures on the craggy landscape. ‘Don’t want blood, Selia. All I ever want is respect, but that’s always been too much to ask.’

Not for the first time, Selia’s hand itched to punch him in the mouth. After all he’d done when they were young. How dare he?

‘Fisher’s got a point, Selia.’

Selia turned to see Jeorje Watch had arrived with fifty armed Watchmen. They wore their traditional garb – bleached white shirts under suspendered black pants, tall black boots, black jackets and wide-brimmed hats. The jackets were bulkier than a year ago, sewn with plates of warded glass to absorb coreling blows. Their hats were likewise armoured, secured by heavy straps.

Coran Marsh was at Jeorje’s side, pushed in his wheeled chair by his eldest son Keven. Big as Lucik Boggin, Keven had been killing demons since the night the Messenger gave his father a spear, but though his body had failed, Coran’s mind remained sharp, and it was to him the Marshes answered.

It was more than a moon since Southwatch annexed Soggy Marsh, but it was still disturbing to see Marshes and Watches standing together. Combined, those boroughs counted nearly four hundred of the thousand or so folk who called the Brook home. A dozen Marsh militia marched with the Watches, carrying thin, warded fishing spears.

But it was Jeorje who led them. The oldest person in the Brook by two decades, Jeorje looked not a day over thirty. His thin wisps of white hair had been replaced with a thick mat of nut brown, his leathern skin smooth once more. His coat was off, the sleeves of his bleached white shirt rolled over meaty forearms. Thick muscled biceps and chest looked ready to split the seams.

He wore no armour, not even a hat, and carried no shield. The cane he used to stomp to make a point was like a sceptre now, covered in intricate warding, with a sheathed speartip at the narrow end. Selia had watched Jeorje beat corelings to death with that cane.