Peter V. Brett - The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold - Stories from The Demon Cycle series

‘You don’t go cheap on things that might mean your life,’ Cob said. He was a veteran Messenger, and spoke from experience. ‘When it comes to armor, you find the best smithy in town, order the strongest they’ve got, and bugger the cost.’

He pointed a finger at Arlen. ‘And always …’

‘… ward it yourself,’ Arlen finished with his master, nodding patiently. ‘I know. You’ve told me a thousand times.’

‘I’ll tell it to you ten thousand more, if that’s how long it takes to etch it into your thick skull.’ Cob picked up the heavy helmet and dropped it over Arlen’s head. The inside was layered in quilt as well, and it fit him snugly. Cob rapped his knuckles hard against the metal, but Arlen heard it more than he felt it.

‘Curk say which mine you’re off to?’ Cob asked. As an apprentice, Arlen was only allowed to travel on guild business accompanied by a licensed Messenger. The guild had assigned him to Curk, an aging and often drunk Messenger who tended to work only short runs.

‘Euchor’s coal,’ Arlen said. ‘Two nights travel.’ Thus far, he had only made day-trips with Curk. This was to be the first run where they would have to lay out their portable warding circles to fend off the corelings as they slept by the road.

‘Two nights is plenty, your first time,’ Cob said.

Arlen snorted. ‘I stayed out longer than that when I was twelve.’

‘And came out of that trip with over a yard of Ragen’s thread holding you together, I recall,’ Cob noted. ‘Don’t go getting swollen because you got lucky once. Any Messenger alive will tell you to stay out at night when you have to, not because you want to. The ones that want to always end up cored.’

Arlen nodded, though even that felt a little dishonest, because they both knew he did want to. Even after all these years, there was something he knew he needed to prove. To himself, and to the night.

‘I want to see the higher mines,’ he said, which was true enough. ‘They say you can look out over the whole world from their height.’

Cob nodded. ‘Won’t lie to you Arlen. If there’s a more beautiful sight than that, I’ve never seen it. Makes even the Damaji Palaces of Krasia pale.’

‘They say the higher mines are haunted by snow demons,’ Arlen said. ‘With scales so cold your spit will crack when it hits them.’

Cob grunted. ‘The thin air is getting to the folks up there. I Messaged to those mines a dozen times at least, and never once saw a snow demon, or heard tale of one that bore scrutiny.’

Arlen shrugged. ‘Doesn’t mean they’re not out there. I read in the Library that they keep to the peaks, where the snow stays year round.’

‘I’ve warned you about putting too much faith in the Library, Arlen,’ Cob said. ‘Most of those books were written before the Return, when folks thought demons were just ale stories and felt free to make up whatever nonsense they saw fit.’

‘Ale stories or no, we wouldn’t have rediscovered wards and survived the Return without them,’ Arlen said. ‘So where’s the harm in watching out for snow demons?’

‘Best to be safe,’ Cob agreed. ‘Be sure to look out for talking Nightwolves and fairy pipkins, as well.’

Arlen scowled, but Cob’s laugh was infectious, and he soon found himself joining in.

When the last armor strap was cinched, Arlen turned to look in the polished metal mirror on the shop’s wall. He was impressive looking in the new armor, there could be no doubt of that, but while Arlen had hoped to cut a dashing figure, he looked more like a hulking metal demon. The effect was only slightly lessened when Cob threw a thick cloak over his shoulders.

‘Keep it pulled tight as you ride the mountain path,’ the old Warder advised. ‘It’ll take the glare off the armor, and keep the wind from cutting through the joints.’

Arlen nodded.

‘And listen to Messenger Curk,’ Cob said. Arlen smiled patiently.

‘Except when he tells you something that I taught you better,’ Cob amended. Arlen barked a laugh.

‘It’s a promise,’ he said.

They looked at each other for long moments, not knowing whether to clasp hands or hug. After a moment they both grunted and turned away, Arlen for the door and Cob for his workbench. Arlen looked back when he reached the door, and met Cob’s eyes again.

‘Come back in one piece,’ Cob ordered.

‘Yes, Master,’ Arlen said, and stepped out into the pre-dawn light.

Arlen watched the great square in front of the Messengers’ Guildhouse as men argued with merchants and stocked wagons. Mothers moved about with their chalked slates, witnessing and accounting the transactions. It was a place pulsing with life and activity, and Arlen loved it.

He glanced at the great clock over the Guildhouse doors, its hands telling the year, month, day, and hour, down to the minute. There was another great clock at the Guildhouse in every Free City, all of them set to the Tender’s Almanac, which gave the times of sunrise and sunset for the coming week that were chalked beneath the clock face. Messengers were taught to live by those clocks. Punctuality, or better yet early arrival, was a point of pride.

But Curk was always late. Patience had never been one of Arlen’s virtues, but now, with the open road beckoning, the wait seemed interminable. His heart thudded in his chest and his muscles knotted with excitement. It had been years since he last slept unprotected by warded walls, but he had not forgotten what it was like. Air had never tasted so good as it had on the open road, nor had he ever felt so alive. So free.

At last, there was a weary stomp of booted feet, and Arlen knew from the smell of ale that Curk had arrived before he even turned to the man.

Messenger Curk was clad in beaten armor of boiled leather, painted with reasonably fresh wards. Not as strong as Arlen’s fluted steel, but a good deal lighter and more flexible. His bald pate was ringed by long blond hair streaked with gray, which fell in greasy gnarls around a weathered face. His beard was thick and roughly cropped, matted like his hair. He had a dented shield strapped to his back and a worn spear in his hand.

Curk stopped to regard Arlen’s shining new armor and shield, and his eyes took a covetous gleam for an instant. He covered it with a derisive snort.

‘Fancy suit for an apprentice.’ He poked his spear into Arlen’s breastplate. ‘Most Messengers need to earn their armor, but not Master Cob’s apprentice, it seems.’

Arlen batted the speartip aside, but not before he heard it scratch the surface he had spent countless hours polishing. Memories came to him unbidden: the flame demon he struck from his mother’s back as a boy, and the long cold night they spent in the mud of an animal pen as the demons danced about testing the wards for a weakness. Of the night he had accidentally cut the arm from a fifteen-foot tall rock demon, and the enmity it bore him to this day.

He balled a fist, putting it under Curk’s hooked nose. ‘What I done or not ent your business, Curk. Touch my armor again and the sun as my witness, you’ll be spitting teeth.’

Curk narrowed his eyes. He was bigger than Arlen, but Arlen was young and strong and sober. Perhaps that was why he stepped back after a moment and nodded an apology. Or perhaps it was because he was more afraid of losing the strong back of an apprentice Messenger when it came time to load and unload the carts.

‘Din’t mean nothin’ by it,’ Curk grumbled, ‘but you ent gonna be much of a Messenger if you’re afraid to get your armor scratched. Now lift your feet. Guildmaster wants to see us before we go. Sooner we get that done, sooner we can be on the road.’