Peter Brett: Brayan's Gold

Plenty of folk make this trip , he reminded himself. Ent nothing they did you can’t do too.

It was late in the day, with both Arlen and Dawn Runner on their last legs, when the small mining town came into sight. Brayan’s Gold was a mixture of semi-permanent structures, some of wood, and others built from the detritus of the mines, packed dirt and cut or pulverized stone. Most of the structures were poor; having tanned skins for doors and extensions made from tents, but there was a great wooden inn at the town’s center, dominating the plateau.

Some few people moved about, women and children mostly, the men likely at work in the mines. Arlen wet his dry and cracked lips, putting his Messenger horn to them and blowing a long, clear note. The act sent knives of ice down his throat.

“Messenger!” a boy called. A moment later, Arlen was surrounded by children, jumping up and down and asking what he had brought them.

Arlen smiled. He had done the same when he was a boy and the Messenger came to Tibbet’s Brook. He’d come prepared, and tossed sugar candies wrapped in twists of corn husk, small toys, and puzzles to the children. Their joy washed over him like a hot bath. Suddenly, climbing the mountain did not seem such an ordeal, and he found some of his strength returning.

“I want to be a Messenger some day,” a boy declared, and Arlen ruffled his hair, slipping him an extra candy.

“You’re a day early,” someone said, and Arlen turned to see a small man dressed in a fine wool coat, his suede boots and gloves trimmed in white ermine fur. Behind him were two burly guards with small pick mattocks hanging from their belts that looked as much weapon as tool. The man approached with a genial smile, extending his hand.

“Ran into some bandits,” Arlen said, shaking the hand. “Pressed ahead and skipped a wardpost to get some distance.”

“Talor,” the man introduced himself, “Count Brayan’s cousin, and Baron of Brayan’s Gold. What happened to Sandar?”

“Broke his leg,” Arlen said. “I’m Arlen Bales.”

Talor put his hand on Arlen’s shoulder, leaning in close. “I’ll tell you the same three things I tell every Messenger on his first run here. The climb is always hardest the first time, you’ll catch your breath by morning, and it’s easier going down than coming up.” He laughed as if it were some great joke, and slapped the back of Arlen’s armor with a clank.

“Still, I’m surprised they sent a first-timer here alone,” Talor said.

“Had Messenger Curk with me, but he turned tail when the bandits hit,” Arlen said.

Talor’s eyes narrowed. “The shipment is intact?”

Arlen smiled. “Down to the last crate-nail.” He handed over a wax-sealed tube pressed with Count Brayan’s pick and hammer sigil as well as Curk’s and his own seals.

“Ha!” the baron barked, his sudden tension gone. He slapped Arlen hard on the back. “This sounds like a tale for inside where it’s warm!”

Talor raised a hand and his guards took the cart. Arlen walked beside him as he popped the seal on the tube and took out the manifest, his eyes running across the lines listing every item on the cart, down to the last letter and personal package. There was a personal letter from the count included in the tube, but Arlen was not privy to its contents. The baron stuffed the unopened envelope in his jacket pocket.

They came to the stable, where boys were unhitching Dawn Runner as the guards unloaded the cart. Arlen moved to help, but Talor put out a hand to hold him back.

“You just spent a week and more on the road, Messenger. Let the Servants handle the back bending.” He handed the manifest to one of the stable guards and led the way inside.

Like the waystation, the inside of the inn was heat warded and quite warm. At its front was a general store, the only resource in town for the necessities of life. Shelves behind the counter were filled with various tools and implements on sale, and chalked slates listed prices for food, livestock, and specialty items.

The room was crowded with women, many with children at their skirts as they called to the women taking orders and coin at the counter, who then called stocking instruction to more of Baron Talor’s burly guards.

After the silence of the road, the din was overwhelming, but the baron quickly led the way through to the taproom in back and a quiet alcove with a richly appointed table. The bartender immediately brought them coffee.

Arlen blew on his steaming cup and sipped, the warmth beginning to seep back into his bones. The baron gave him time to take his ease until two women approached the table, one young, and another much older. Their dresses were plainer than Royal ladies favored in Fort Miln, but the fine cut and cloth still marked them.

Arlen stood politely as the baron kissed the women and turned to make introductions. “Messenger Arlen Bales, may I present my wife, Lady Delia Talor, and my daughter, Stasy.”

Arlen noted the lack of the title “Mother” before the baroness’ name, but he made no comment, bowing and kissing hands just as Cob had taught him.

The baroness was in her late fifties and no beauty, with a pinched face and a long neck, making her seem like a fishing bird. Stasy Talor, however, was all that Derek had claimed.

She was of an age with Arlen, with dark hair and blue eyes, tall and lithe in the Milnese way. She was pretty of face, but Arlen thought it was the sad cast to her eyes that made her truly beautiful. The lacings of her bodice were undone, as if the dress no longer fit well.

Reckon she must’ve bled by now , Derek had said, but suddenly Arlen wasn’t so sure. He had to force his eyes up to meet hers before he was caught staring.

They all sat, and the baron and baroness leaned in close as they broke the seal and read Count Brayan’s private letter. They began whispering harshly to one another and glancing at Stasy, but Arlen affected not to notice. He turned to the girl, hoping to engage her in conversation, but the baron’s daughter did not acknowledge him, watching the discussion with her sad eyes.

Finally, the baron grunted and turned back to Arlen. “We’ll soon be sending a caravan to Miln, so you can leave the cart here and head back with your horse alone. There will only be a handful of letters for your return.”

Arlen nodded, and soon after a rich lunch was served. The baron and his wife kept up a constant flow of questions, asking for news from Miln, and Arlen dutifully recited every going on of note in the great city, along with whatever gossip he had overheard around the Messengers’ Guildhouse. It was the gossip the Royals in exile seemed to covet most of all. Stasy took no part in the conversation, her eyes on her lap.

At last, a guard came over to the table with a chalked slate and the manifest. “There’s a thunderstick missing.” He eyed Arlen suspiciously.

“Nonsense,” Talor said. “Count them again.”

“Counted twice,” the guard said.

The baron scowled, and his eyes flicked to Arlen for just an instant. His smile was forced. “Count a third time,” he told the guard.

Arlen cleared his throat. “No, he’s right. The missing stick’s in front, tucked under the seat. I used it to scare my way past the bandits.” He tried to tell himself he had forgotten the stick was there, but he knew deep down that he had left it there on purpose, hoping that perhaps no one would notice it was missing from the crate.

Everyone looked at him in shock. Even Stasy’s eyes came up. Arlen quickly explained his encounter with the bandits, though he made no mention of Sandar.