The Warded Man (5 page)

He watched as Rusco pulled a ring on his floor, opening a wide trap. Arlen came forward quickly, worried old Hog would change his mind. He went down the creaking steps, holding the lantern high to illuminate the way. As he did, the light touched on stacks of crates and barrels from floor to ceiling, running in even rows stretching back past the edges of the light. The floor was wooden to prevent corelings from rising directly into the cellar from the Core, but there were still wards carved into the racks along the walls. Old Hog was careful with his treasures.

The storekeeper led the way through the aisles to the sealed barrels in the back. “They look unspoiled,” Ragen said, inspecting the wood. He considered a moment, then chose at random. “That one,” he said, pointing to a barrel.

Rusco grunted and hauled out the barrel in question. Some people called his work easy, but his arms were as hard and thick as any that swung an axe or scythe. He broke the seal and popped the top off the barrel, scooping rice into a shallow pan for Ragen to inspect.

“Good Marsh rice,” he told the Messenger, “and not a weevil to be seen, nor sign of rot. This will fetch a high price in Miln, especially after so long.” Ragen grunted and nodded, so the cask was resealed and they returned upstairs.

They argued for some time over how many barrels of rice the heavy sacks of salt on the cart were worth. In the end, neither of them seemed happy, but they shook hands on the deal.

Rusco called his daughters, and they all went out to the cart to begin unloading the salt. Arlen tried lifting a bag, but it was far too heavy, and he staggered and fell, dropping it.

“Be careful!” Dasy scolded, slapping the back of his head.

“If you can’t lift, then get the door!” Catrin barked. She herself had one sack over her shoulder and another tucked under her meaty arm. Arlen scrambled to his feet and rushed to hold the portal for her.

“Fetch Ferd Miller and tell him we’ll pay five … make it four credits for every sack he grinds,” Rusco told Arlen. Most everyone in the Brook worked for Hog, one way or another, but the Squarefolk most of all. “Five if he packs it in barrels with rice to keep it dry.”

“Ferd is off in the Cluster,” Arlen said. “Most everyone is.”

Rusco grunted, but did not reply. Soon enough the cart was empty, save for a few boxes and sacks that did not contain salt. Rusco’s daughters eyed those hungrily, but said nothing.

“We’ll carry the rice up from the cellar tonight and keep it in the back room until you’re ready to head back to Miln,” Rusco said, when the last sack was hauled inside.

“Thank you,” Ragen said.

“The duke’s business is done, then?” Rusco asked with a grin, his eyes flicking knowingly to the remaining items on the cart.

“The duke’s business, yes,” Ragen said, grinning in return. Arlen hoped they would give him another ale while they haggled. It made him feel light-headed, like he had caught a chill, but without the coughing and sneezing and aches. He liked the feeling, and wanted to try it again.

He helped carry the remaining items into the taproom, and Catrin brought out a platter of sandwiches thick with meat. Arlen was given a second cup of ale to wash it down, and old Hog told him he could have two credits in the book for his work. “I won’t tell your parents,” Hog said, “but if you spend it on ale and they catch you, you’ll be working off the grief your mum gives me.” Arlen nodded eagerly. He’d never had credits of his own to spend at the store.

After lunch, Rusco and Ragen went over to the bar and opened up the other items the Messenger had brought. Arlen’s eyes flared as each treasure was presented. There were bolts of cloth finer than anything he had ever seen; metal tools and pins, ceramics, and exotic spices. There were even a few cups made of bright, sparkling glass.

Hog seemed less impressed. “Graig had a better haul last year,” he said. “I’ll give you … a hundred credits for the lot.” Arlen’s jaw dropped. A hundred credits! Ragen could own half the Brook for that.

Ragen didn’t care for the offer, though. His eyes went hard again, and he slammed his hand down on the table. Dasy and Catrin looked up from their cleaning at the sound.

“To the Core with your credit!” he growled. “I’m not one of your bumpkins, and unless you want the guild to know you for a cheat, you’ll not mistake me for one again.”

“No hard feelings!” Rusco laughed, patting the air in that placating way he had. “Had to try … you understand. They still like gold up there in Miln?” he asked with a sly smile.

“Same as everywhere,” Ragen said. He was still frowning, but the anger had drained from his voice.

“Not out here,” Rusco said. He went back behind the curtain, and they could hear him rummaging around, raising his voice to still be heard. “Out here, if you can’t eat something, or wear it, paint a ward with it, or use it to till your field, it’s not worth much of anything.” He returned a moment later with a large cloth sack he deposited on the counter with a clink.

“People here have forgotten that gold moves the world,” he went on, reaching into the bag and pulling out two heavy yellow coins, which he waved in Ragen’s face. “The miller’s kids were using these as game pieces! Game pieces! I told them I’d trade the gold for a carved wood game set I had in the back; they thought I was doing them a favor! Ferd even came by the next day to thank me!” He laughed a deep belly laugh. Arlen felt like he should be offended by that laugh, but he wasn’t quite sure why. He had played the Millers’ game many times, and it seemed worth more than two metal disks, however shiny they might be.

“I brought a lot more than two suns’ worth,” Ragen said, nodding at the coins and then looking toward the bag.

Rusco smiled. “Not to worry,” he said, untying the bag fully. As the cloth flattened on the counter, more bright coins spilled out, along with chains and rings and ropes of glittering stones. It was all very pretty, Arlen supposed, but he was surprised at how Ragen’s eyes bulged and took on a covetous glitter.

Again they haggled, Ragen holding the stones up to the light and biting the coins, while Rusco fingered the cloth and tasted the spices. It was a blur to Arlen, whose head was spinning from the ale. Mug after mug came to the men from Catrin at the bar, but they showed no signs of being as affected as Arlen.

“Two hundred and twenty gold suns, two silver moons, the rope chain, and the three silver rings,” Rusco said at last. “And not a copper light more.”

“No wonder you work out in a backwater,” Ragen said. “They must have run you out of the city for a cheat.”

“Insults won’t make you any richer,” Hog said, confident he had the upper hand.

“No riches for me this time,” Ragen said. “After my traveling costs, every last light will go to Graig’s widow.”

“Ah, Jenya,” Rusco said wistfully. “She used to pen for some of those in Miln with no letters, my idiot nephew among them. What will become of her?”

Ragen shook his head. “The guild paid no death-price to her, because Graig died at home,” he said. “And since she isn’t a Mother, a lot of jobs will be denied her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rusco said.

“Graig left her some money,” Ragen said, “though he never had much, and the guild will still pay her to pen. With the money from this trip, she should have enough to get by for a time. She’s young, though, and it will run out eventually unless she remarries or finds better work.”

“And then?” Rusco asked.

Ragen shrugged. “It’ll be hard for her to find a new husband, having already married and failed to bear children, but she won’t become a Beggar. My guild brothers and I have sworn that. One of us will take her in as a Servant before that happens.”

Rusco shook his head. “Still, to fall from Merchant class to Servant …” He reached into the much lighter bag and produced a ring with a clear, sparkling stone set into it. “See that she gets this,” he said, holding the ring out.

As Ragen reached for it, though, Rusco pulled it back suddenly. “I’ll have a message back from her, you understand,” he said. “I know how she shapes her letters.” Ragen looked at him a moment, and he quickly added, “No insult meant.”

Ragen smiled. “Your generosity outweighs your insult,” he said, taking the ring. “This will keep her belly full for months.”

“Yes, well,” Rusco said gruffly, scooping up the remains of the bag, “don’t let any of the townies hear, or I’ll lose my reputation as a cheat.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Ragen said with a laugh.

“You could earn her a bit more, perhaps,” Rusco said.

“Oh?”

“The letters we have were meant to go to Miln six months ago. You stick around a few days while we pen and collect more, and maybe help pen a few, and I’ll compensate you. No more gold,” he clarified, “but surely Jenya could do with a cask of rice, or some cured fish or meal.”

“Indeed she could,” Ragen said.

“I can find work for your Jongleur, too,” Rusco added. “He’ll see more custom here in the Square than by hopping from farm to farm.”

“Agreed,” Ragen said. “Keerin will need gold, though.”

Rusco gave him a wry look, and Ragen laughed. “Had to try … you understand!” he said. “Silver, then.”

Rusco nodded. “I’ll charge a moon for every performance, and for every moon, I’ll keep one star and he the other three.”

“I thought you said the townies had no money,” Ragen noted.

“Most don’t,” Rusco said. “I’ll sell the moons to them … say at the cost of five credits.”

“So Rusco Hog skims from both sides of the deal?” Ragen asked.

Hog smiled.

Arlen was excited during the ride back. Old Hog had promised to let him see the Jongleur for free if he spread the word that Keerin would be entertaining in the Square at high sun the next day for five credits or a silver Milnese moon. He wouldn’t have much time; his parents would be readying to leave just as he and Ragen returned, but he was sure he could spread the word before they pulled him onto the cart.

“Tell me about the Free Cities,” Arlen begged as they rode. “How many have you seen?”

“Five,” Ragen said, “Miln, Angiers, Lakton, Rizon, and Krasia. There may be others beyond the mountains or the desert, but none that I know have seen them.”

“What are they like?” Arlen asked.

“Fort Angiers, the forest stronghold, lies south of Miln, across the Dividing River,” Ragen said. “Angiers supplies wood for the other cities. Farther south lies the great lake, and on its surface stands Lakton.”

“Is a lake like a pond?” Arlen asked.

“A lake is to a pond what a mountain is to a hill,” Ragen said, giving Arlen a moment to digest the thought. “Out on the water, the Laktonians are safe from flame, rock, and wood demons. Their wardnet is proof against wind demons, and no people can ward against water demons better. They’re fisher-folk, and thousands in the southern cities depend on their catch for food.

“West of Lakton is Fort Rizon, which is not technically a fort, since you could practically step over its wall, but it shields the largest farmlands you’ve ever seen. Without Rizon, the other Free Cities would starve.”

“And Krasia?” Arlen asked.

“I only visited Fort Krasia once,” Ragen said. “The Krasians aren’t welcoming to outsiders, and you need to cross weeks of desert to get there.”

“Desert?”

“Sand,” Ragen explained. “Nothing but sand for miles in every direction. No food nor water but what you carry, and nothing to shade you from the scorching sun.”

“And people live there?” Arlen asked.

“Oh, yes,” Ragen said. “The Krasians used to be even more numerous than the Milnese, but they’re dying off.”

“Why?” Arlen asked.

“Because they fight the corelings,” Ragen said. Arlen’s eyes widened.

“You can fight corelings?” he asked.

“You can fight anything, Arlen,” Ragen said. “The problem with fighting corelings is that more often than not, you lose. The Krasians kill their share, but the corelings give better than they get. There are fewer Krasians every year.”

“My da says corelings eat your soul when they get you,” Arlen said.

“Bah!” Ragen spat over the side of the cart. “Superstitious nonsense.”

They had turned a bend not far from the Cluster when Arlen noticed something dangling from the tree ahead of them.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing.

“Night,” Ragen swore, and cracked the reins, sending the mollies into a gallop. Arlen was thrown back in his seat, and took a moment to right himself. When he did, he looked at the tree, which was coming up fast.

“Uncle Cholie!” he cried, seeing the man kicking as he clawed at the rope around his neck.

“Help! Help!” Arlen screamed. He leapt from the moving cart, hitting the ground hard, but he bounced to his feet, darting toward Cholie. He got up under the man, but one of Cholie’s thrashing feet kicked him in the mouth, knocking him down. He tasted blood, but strangely there was no pain. He came up again, grabbing Cholie’s legs and trying to lift him up to loosen the rope, but he was too short, and Cholie too heavy besides, and the man continued to gag and jerk.

“Help him!” Arlen cried to Ragen. “He’s choking! Somebody help!”

He looked up to see Ragen pull a spear from the back of the cart. The Messenger drew back and threw with hardly a moment to aim, but his aim was true, severing the rope and collapsing poor Cholie onto Arlen. They both fell into the dirt.