The Warded Man

“Light’s wasting,” Ragen said. “Send word to Mother Jone that we’ll come to the palace after I deliver the rice and stop home for a bath and a decent meal.” The men saluted and let them pass into the city.

Despite his initial disappointment, the grandeur of Miln soon overwhelmed Arlen. Buildings soared into the air, dwarfing anything he had ever seen before, and cobbles covered the streets instead of hard-packed dirt. Corelings couldn’t rise through worked stone, but Arlen couldn’t imagine the effort needed to cut and fit hundreds of thousands of stones.

In Tibbet’s Brook, most every structure was wood, with foundations of piled stone and roofs of thatch with plates for wards. Here, most everything was cut stone, and reeked of age. Despite the warded outer walls, every building was warded individually, some in fantastic works of art, and others in simple functionality.

The air in the city was rank, thick with the stench of garbage, dung fires, and sweat. Arlen tried holding his breath, but soon gave up and settled for breathing through his mouth. Keerin, on the other hand, seemed to breathe comfortably for the first time.

Ragen led the way to a marketplace where Arlen saw more people than he had in his entire life. Hundreds of Rusco Hogs called to him from all sides: “Buy this!” “Try that!” “A special price, just for you!” They were all tall; giants compared to the folk of the Brook.

They passed carts of fruits and vegetables the likes of which Arlen had never seen, and so many sellers of clothes that he thought it must be all the Milnese thought about. There were paintings and carvings, too, so intricate he wondered how anyone had time to make them.

Ragen brought them to a merchant on the far end of the market who bore the symbol of a shield on his tent. “The duke’s man,” Ragen advised as they pulled up to the cart.

“Ragen!” the merchant called. “What do you have for me today?”

“Marsh rice,” Ragen said. “Taxes from the Brook to pay for the duke’s salt.”

“Been to see Rusco Hog?” the merchant said more than asked. “That crook still robbing the townies blind?”

“You know Hog?” Ragen asked.

The merchant laughed. “I testified before the Mothers’ Council ten years ago to have his merchant license pulled, after he tried to pass on a shipment of grain thick with rats,” he said. “He left town soon after, and resurfaced at the ends of the world. Heard the same thing happened in Angiers, which is why he was in Miln to begin with.”

“Good thing we checked the rice,” Ragen muttered.

They haggled for some time over the going rates for rice and salt. Finally, the merchant gave in, admitting that Ragen had gotten the better of Hog. He gave the Messenger a jingling pouch of coins to make up the difference.

“Can Arlen drive the cart from here?” Keerin asked. Ragen glanced at him and nodded. He tossed a purse of coins to Keerin, who caught it deftly and hopped off the cart.

Ragen shook his head as Keerin disappeared into the crowd. “Not the worst Jongleur,” he said, “but he doesn’t have the stones for the road.” He remounted, and led Arlen through the busy streets. Arlen felt suffocated by the press as they moved down a particularly crowded street. He noticed some people dressed only in tattered rags despite the chill mountain air.

“What are they doing?” Arlen asked, watching them hold empty cups out at passersby.

“Begging,” Ragen said. “Not everyone in Miln can afford to buy food.”

“Can’t we just give them some of ours?” Arlen asked.

Ragen sighed. “It’s not that simple, Arlen,” he said. “The soil here isn’t fertile enough to feed even half the people. We need grain from Fort Rizon, fish from Lakton, fruit and livestock from Angiers. The other cities don’t just give all that away. It goes to those who work a trade and earn the money to pay for it, the Merchants. Merchants hire Servants to do for them, and feed, clothe, and house them out of their own purse.”

He gestured at a man wrapped in rough, filthy cloth holding out a cracked wooden bowl to passersby, who moved to avoid him, refusing eye contact. “So unless you’re a Royal or a Holy Man, if you don’t work, you end up like that.”

Arlen nodded as if he understood, but he didn’t really. People ran out of credits at the general store in Tibbet’s Brook all the time, but even Hog didn’t let them starve.

They came to a house, and Ragen signaled Arlen to stop the cart. It was not a large house compared to many Arlen had seen in Miln, but it was still impressive by Tibbet’s Brook standards, made entirely of stone and standing two full stories.

“Is this where you live?” Arlen asked.

Ragen shook his head. He dismounted and went to the door, knocking sharply. A moment later, it was answered by a young woman with long brown hair woven into a tight braid. She was tall and sturdy, like everyone in Miln, and wore a high-necked dress that fell to her ankles and was tight across her bosom. Arlen couldn’t tell if she was pretty. He was about to decide that she was not when she smiled, and her whole face changed.

“Ragen!” she cried, throwing her arms around him. “You came! Thank the Creator!”

“Of course I came, Jenya,” Ragen said. “We Messengers take care of our own.”

“I’m no Messenger,” Jenya said.

“You were married to one, and that’s the same. Graig died a Messenger, the guild’s ruling be damned.”

Jenya looked sad, and Ragen changed the subject quickly, striding over to the cart and unloading the remaining stores. “I’ve brought you good Marsh rice, salt, meat, and fish,” he said, carrying the items over and setting them just inside her doorway. Arlen scurried to help.

“And this,” Ragen added, pulling the sack of gold and silver he had gotten from Hog out of his belt. He threw in the little pouch from the duke’s merchant, as well.

Jenya’s eyes widened as she opened it. “Oh, Ragen,” she said, “it’s too much. I can’t …”

“You can and you will,” Ragen ordered, cutting her off. “It’s the least I can do.”

Jenya’s eyes filled with tears. “I have no way to thank you,” she said. “I’ve been so scared. Penning for the guild doesn’t cover everything, and without Graig … I thought I might have to go back to begging.”

“There, there,” Ragen said, patting her shoulder. “My brothers and I will never let that happen. I’ll take you into my own household before I let you fall so far,” he promised.

“Oh, Ragen, you would do that?” she asked.

“There’s one last thing,” Ragen said. “A gift from Rusco Hog.” He held up the ring. “He wants you to write him, and let him know you got it.”

Jenya’s eyes began to water again, looking at the beautiful ring.

“Graig was well loved,” Ragen said, slipping the ring onto her finger. “Let this ring be a symbol of his memory. The food and money should last your family a good long while. Perhaps, in that time, you’ll even find another husband and become a Mother. But if things ever grow so dark that you feel you must sell that ring, you come to me first, you understand?”

Jenya nodded, but her eyes were down, still dripping as she caressed the ring.