The Warded Man (25 page)

“All right,” he agreed finally. “Seven years.”

“THERE’S OUR FRIEND AGAIN,” said Gaims, gesturing into the darkness from their post on the wall.

“Right on time,” Woron agreed, coming up next to him. “What do you s’pose he wants?”

“Empty my pockets,” Gaims said, “you’ll find no answers.”

The two guards leaned against the warded rail of the watchtower and watched as the one-armed rock demon materialized before the gate. It was big, even to the eyes of Milnese guards, who saw more of rock demons than any other type.

While the other demons were still getting their bearings, the one-armed demon moved with purpose, snuffling about the gate, searching. Then it straightened and struck the gate, testing the wards. Magic flared and threw the demon back, but it was undeterred. Slowly, the demon moved along the wall, striking again and again, searching for a weakness until it was out of sight.

Hours later, a crackle of energy signaled the demon’s return from the opposite direction. The guards at other posts said that the demon circled the city each night, attacking every ward. When it reached the gate once more, it settled back on its haunches, staring patiently at the city.

Gaims and Woron were used to this scene, having witnessed it every night for the past year. They had even begun to look forward to it, passing the time on their watch by betting on how long one Arm took to circle the city, or whether he would head east or west to do so.

“I’m half tempted to let ’im in, just t’see what he’s after,” Woron mused.

“Don’t even joke about that,” Gaims warned. “If the watch commander hears talk like that, he’ll have both of us in irons, quarrying stone for the next year.”

His partner grunted. “Still,” he said, “you have to wonder …”

That first year in Miln, his twelfth, passed quickly for Arlen as he grew into his role as an apprentice Warder. Cob’s first task had been to teach him to read. Arlen knew wards never before seen in Miln, and Cob wanted them committed to paper as soon as possible.

Arlen took to reading voraciously, wondering how he had ever gotten along without it. He disappeared into books for hours at a time, his lips moving slightly at first, but soon he was turning pages rapidly, his eyes darting across the page.

Cob had no cause to complain; Arlen worked harder than any apprentice he had ever known, staying up late in the night etching wards. Cob would often go to his bed thinking of the full day’s work to come, only to find it completed when the sun’s first light flooded the shop.

After learning his letters, Arlen was put to work cataloguing his personal repertoire of wards, complete with descriptions, into a book the master purchased for him. Paper was expensive in the sparsely wooded lands of Miln, and a whole book was something few commoners ever saw, but Cob scoffed at the price.

“Even the worst grimoire’s worth a hundred times the paper it’s written on,” he said.

“Grimoire?” Arlen asked.

“A book of wards,” Cob said. “Every Warder has theirs, and they guard their secrets carefully.” Arlen treasured the valuable gift, filling its pages with a slow and steady hand.

When Arlen had finished plumbing his memory, Cob studied the book in shock. “Creator, boy, do you have any idea what this book is worth?” he demanded.

Arlen looked up from the ward he was chiseling into a stone post, and shrugged. “Any graybeard in Tibbet’s Brook could teach you those wards,” he said.

“That may be,” Cob replied, “but what’s common in Tibbet’s Brook is buried treasure in Miln. This ward here.” He pointed to a page. “Can it truly turn firespit into a cool breeze?”

Arlen laughed. “My mam used to love that one,” he said. “She wished the flame demons could come right up to the windows on hot summer nights to cool the house with their breath.”

“Amazing,” Cob said, shaking his head. “I want you to copy this a few more times, Arlen. It’s going to make you a very rich man.”

“How do you mean?” Arlen asked.

“People would pay a fortune for a copy of this,” Cob said. “Maybe we shouldn’t even sell at all. We could be the most sought-after Warders in the city if we kept them secret.”

Arlen frowned. “It’s not right to keep them secret,” he said. “My da always said wards are for everyone.”

“Every Warder has his secrets, Arlen,” Cob said. “This is how we make our living.”

“We make our living etching wardposts and painting door-jambs,” Arlen disagreed, “not hoarding secrets that can save lives. Should we deny succor to those too poor to pay?”

“Of course not,” Cob said, “but this is different.”

“How?” Arlen asked. “We didn’t have Warders in Tibbet’s Brook. We all warded our own homes, and those who were better at it helped those who were worse without asking anything in return. Why should we? It’s not us against each other, it’s us against the demons!”

“Fort Miln isn’t like Tibbet’s Brook, boy.” Cob scowled. “Here, things cost money. If you don’t have any money, you become a Beggar. I have a skill, like any baker or stonemason. Why shouldn’t I charge for it?”

Arlen sat quietly for a time. “Cob, why ent you rich?” he asked at last.

“What?”

“Like Ragen,” Arlen clarified. “You said you used to be a Messenger for the duke. Why don’t you live in a manse and have servants do everything for you? Why do you do this at all?”

Cob blew out a long breath. “Money is a fickle thing, Arlen,” he said. “One moment you can have more than you know what to do with, and the next … you can find yourself begging food on the street.”

Arlen thought of the beggars he saw on his first day in Miln. He had seen many more since, stealing dung to burn for warmth, sleeping in public warded shelters, begging for food.

“What happened to your money, Cob?” he asked.

“I met a man who said he could build a road,” Cob said. “A warded road, stretching from here to Angiers.” Arlen moved closer and sat on a stool, his attention rapt.

“They’ve tried to build roads before,” Cob went on, “to the Duke’s Mines in the mountains, or to Harden’s Grove to the south. Short distances, less than a full day, but enough to make a fortune for the builder. They always failed. If there’s a hole in a net, no matter how small, corelings will find it eventually. And once they’re in …” He shook his head. “I told the man this, but he was adamant. He had a plan. It would work. All he needed was money.”

Cob looked at Arlen. “Every city is short of something,” he said, “and has too much of something else. Miln has metal and stone, but no wood. Angiers, the reverse. Both are short of crops and livestock, while Rizon has more than they need, but no good lumber or metal for tools. Lakton has fish in abundance, but little else.

“I know you must think me a fool,” he said, shaking his head, “for considering something everyone from the duke on down had dismissed as impossible, but the idea stuck with me. I kept thinking,
What if he could? Isn’t that worth any risk?
”

“I don’t think you’re a fool,” Arlen said.

“Which is why I keep most of your pay in trust,” Cob chuckled. “You’d give it away, same as I did.”

“What happened to the road?” Arlen pressed.

“Corelings happened,” Cob said. “They slaughtered the man and all the workers I hired him, burned the wardposts and plans … they destroyed it all. I had invested everything in that road, Arlen. Even letting my servants go wasn’t enough to pay my debts. I made barely enough money selling my manse to clear a loan to buy this shop, and I’ve been here ever since.”

They sat for a time, both of them lost in images of what that night must have been like, both of them seeing in their mind’s eye the corelings dancing amid the flames and carnage.

“Do you still think the dream was worth the risk?” Arlen asked. “All the cities sharing?”

“To this day,” Cob replied. “Even when my back aches from carting wardposts and I can’t stand my own cooking.”

“This is no different,” Arlen said, tapping the book of wards. “If all the Warders shared what they knew, how much better for everyone? Isn’t a safer city worth losing a little profit?”

Cob stared at him a long time. Then he came over and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re right, Arlen. I’m sorry. We’ll copy the books and sell them to the other Warders.”

Arlen slowly began to smile.

“What?” Cob asked suspiciously.

“Why not trade our secrets for theirs?” Arlen asked.

The chimes rang, and Elissa entered the warding shop with a wide smile. She nodded to Cob as she carried a large basket to Arlen, kissing him on the cheek. Arlen grimaced in embarrassment and wiped his cheek, but she took no notice of it.

“I brought you boys some fruit, and fresh bread and cheese,” she said, removing the items from the basket. “I expect you’ve been eating no better than you were upon my last visit.”

“Dried meat and hard bread are a Messenger’s staples, my lady,” Cob said with a smile, not looking up from the keystone he was chiseling.

“Rubbish,” Elissa scolded. “You’re retired, Cob, and Arlen isn’t a Messenger yet. Don’t try to glorify your lazy refusal to go to the market. Arlen is a growing boy, and needs better fare.” She ruffled Arlen’s hair as she spoke, smiling even as he pulled away.

“Come to dinner tonight, Arlen,” Elissa said. “Ragen is away, and the manse is lonely without him. I’ll feed you something to put meat on your bones, and you can stay in your room.”

“I … don’t think I can,” Arlen said, avoiding her eyes. “Cob needs me to finish these wardposts for the Duke’s Gardens …”

“Nonsense,” Cob said, waving his hand. “The wardposts can wait, Arlen. They’re not due for another week.” He looked up at Lady Elissa with a grin, ignoring Arlen’s discomfort. “I’ll send him over at the Evening Bell, Lady.”

Elissa flashed him a smile. “It’s settled, then,” she said. “I’ll see you tonight, Arlen.” She kissed the boy and swept out of the shop.

Cob glanced at Arlen, who was frowning into his work. “I don’t see why you choose to spend your nights sleeping on a pallet in the back of the shop when you could have a warm featherbed and a woman like Elissa to dote on you,” he said, keeping his eyes on his own work.

“She acts like she’s my mam,” Arlen complained, “but she’s not.”

“That’s true, she’s not,” Cob agreed. “But it’s clear she wants the job. Would it be so bad to let her have it?”

Arlen said nothing, and Cob, seeing the sad look in the boy’s eyes, let the matter drop.

“You’re spending too much time inside with your nose buried in books,” Cob said, snatching away the volume Arlen was reading. “When was the last time you felt the sun on your skin?”

Arlen’s eyes widened. In Tibbet’s Brook, he had never spent a moment indoors when he had a choice, but after more than a year in Miln, he could hardly remember his last day outside.

“Go find some mischief!” Cob ordered. “Won’t kill you to make a friend your own age!”

Arlen walked out of the city for the first time in a year, and the sun comforted him like an old friend. Away from the dung carts, rotting garbage, and sweaty crowds, the air held a freshness he had forgotten. He found a hilltop overlooking a field filled with playing children and pulled a book from his bag, plopping down to read.

“Hey, bookmole!” someone called.

Arlen looked up to see a group of boys approaching, holding a ball. “C’mon!” one of them cried. “We need one more to make the sides even!”

“I don’t know the game,” Arlen said. Cob had all but ordered him to play with other boys, but he thought his book far more interesting.

“What’s to know?” another boy asked. “You help your side get the ball to the goal, and try to keep the other side from doing it.”

Arlen frowned. “All right,” he said, moving to join the boy who had spoken.

“I’m Jaik,” the boy said. He was slender, with tousled dark hair and a pinched nose. His clothes were patched and dirty. He looked thirteen, like Arlen. “What’s your name?”

“Arlen.”

“You work for Warder Cob, right?” Jaik asked. “The kid Messenger Ragen found on the road?” When Arlen nodded, Jaik’s eyes widened a bit, as if he hadn’t believed it. He led the way onto the field, and pointed out the white painted stones that marked the goals.

Arlen quickly caught on to the rules of the game. After a time, he forgot his book, focusing his attention on the opposing team. He imagined he was a Messenger and they were demons trying to keep him from his circle. Hours melted away, and before he knew it the Evening Bell rang. Everyone hurriedly gathered up their things, fearful of the darkening sky.

Arlen took his time fetching his book. Jaik ran up to him. “You’d better hurry,” he said.

Arlen shrugged. “We have plenty of time,” he replied.

Jaik looked at the darkening sky, and shuddered. “You play pretty good,” he said. “Come back tomorrow. We play ball most afternoons, and on Sixthday we go to the square to see the Jongleur.” Arlen nodded noncommittally, and Jaik smiled and sped off.

Arlen headed back through the gate, the now-familiar stink of the city enveloping him. He turned up the hill to Ragen’s manse. The Messenger was away again, this time to faraway Lakton, and Arlen was spending the month with Elissa. She would pester him with questions and fuss about his clothes, but he had promised Ragen to “keep her young lovers away.”