The Warded Man

“Twice that Graig’s journey log has led me astray,” Ragen said. “I called Selia ‘Barren’ to her face this morning.”

“Ha!” Rusco laughed. “Did you now? Well, that’s worth a drink on the house, if anything is. What did you say your name was?”

“Ragen,” the Messenger said, dropping his heavy satchel and taking a seat at the bar. Rusco tapped a keg, and plucked a slatted wooden mug off a hook.

The ale was thick and honey-colored, and foamed to a white head atop the mug. Rusco filled one for Ragen and another for himself. Then he glanced at Arlen, and filled a smaller cup. “Take that to a table and let your elders talk at the bar,” he said. “And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t tell your mum I gave it to you.”

Arlen beamed, and ran off with his prize before Rusco had a chance to reconsider. He had snuck a taste of ale from his father’s mug at festivals, but had never had a cup of his own.

“I was starting to worry no one was coming ever again,” he heard Rusco tell Ragen.

“Graig took a chill just before he was to leave last fall,” Ragen said, drinking deeply. “His Herb Gatherer told him to put the trip off until he got better, but then winter set in, and he got worse and worse. In the end, he asked me to take his route until the guild could find another. I had to take a caravan of salt to Angiers anyway, so I added an extra cart and swung this way before heading back north.”

Rusco took his mug and filled it again. “To Graig,” he said, “a fine Messenger, and a dangerous haggler.” Ragen nodded and the two men clapped mugs and drank.

“Another?” Rusco asked, when Ragen slammed his mug back down on the bar.

“Graig wrote in his log that you were a dangerous haggler, too,” Ragen said, “and that you’d try to get me drunk first.”

Rusco chuckled, and refilled the mug. “After the haggling, I’ll have no need to serve these on the house,” he said, handing it to Ragen with a fresh head.

“You will if you want your mail to reach Miln,” Ragen said with a grin, accepting the mug.

“I can see you’re going to be as tough as Graig ever was,” Rusco grumbled, filling his own mug. “There,” he said, when it foamed over, “we can both haggle drunk.” They laughed, and clashed mugs again.

“What news of the Free Cities?” Rusco asked. “The Krasians still determined to destroy themselves?”

Ragen shrugged. “By all accounts. I stopped going to Krasia a few years ago, when I married. Too far, and too dangerous.”

“So the fact that they cover their women in blankets has nothing to do with it?” Rusco asked.

Ragen laughed. “Doesn’t help,” he said, “but it’s mostly how they think all Northerners, even Messengers, are cowards for not spending our nights trying to get ourselves cored.”

“Maybe they’d be less inclined to fight if they looked at their women more,” Rusco mused. “How about Angiers and Miln? The dukes still bickering?”

“As always,” Ragen said. “Euchor needs Angiers’ wood to fuel his refineries, and grain to feed his people. Rhinebeck needs Miln’s metal and salt. They have to trade to survive, but instead of making it easy on themselves, they spend all their time trying to cheat each other, especially when a shipment is lost to corelings on the road. Last summer, demons hit a caravan of steel and salt. They killed the drivers, but left most of the cargo intact. Rhinebeck retrieved it, and refused to pay, claiming salvage rights.”

“Duke Euchor must have been furious,” Rusco said.

“Livid,” Ragen agreed. “I was the one that brought him the news. He went red in the face, and swore Angiers wouldn’t see another ounce of salt until Rhinebeck paid.”

“Did Rhinebeck pay?” Rusco asked, leaning in eagerly.

Ragen shook his head. “They did their best to starve each other for a few months, and then the Merchants’ Guild paid, just to get their shipments out before the winter came and they rotted in storage. Rhinebeck is angry at them now, for giving in to Euchor, but his face was saved and the shipments were moving again, which is all that mattered to anyone other than those two dogs.”

“Wise to watch what you call the dukes,” Rusco warned, “even this far out.”

“Who’s going to tell them?” Ragen asked. “You? The boy?”

He gestured at Arlen. Both men laughed.

“And now I have to bring Euchor news of Riverbridge, which will make things worse,” Ragen said.

“The town on the border of Miln,” Rusco said, “barely a day out from Angiers. I have contacts there.”

“Not anymore, you don’t,” Ragen said pointedly, and the men were quiet for a time.

“Enough bad news,” Ragen said, hauling his satchel onto the bar. Rusco considered it dubiously.

“That doesn’t look like salt,” he said, “and I doubt I have that much mail.”

“You have six letters, and an even dozen packages,” Ragen said, handing Rusco a sheaf of folded paper. “It’s all listed here, along with all the other letters in the satchel and packages on the cart to be distributed. I gave Selia a copy of the list,” he warned.

“What do I want with that list, or your mailbag?” Rusco asked.

“The Speaker is occupied, and won’t be able to distribute the mail and read to those that can’t. She volunteered you.”

“And how am I to be compensated for spending my business hours reading to the townies?” Rusco asked.

“The satisfaction of a good deed to your neighbors?” Ragen asked.

Rusco snorted. “I didn’t come to Tibbet’s Brook to make friends,” he said. “I’m a businessman, and I do a lot for this town.”

“Do you?” Ragen asked.

“Damn right,” Rusco said. “Before I came to this town, all they did was barter.” He made the word a curse, and spat on the floor. “They collected the fruits of their labor and gathered in the square every Seventhday, arguing over how many beans were worth an ear of corn, or how much rice you had to give the cooper to make you a barrel to put your rice in. And if you didn’t get what you needed on Seventhday, you had to wait until the next week, or go door to door. Now everyone can come here, any day, any time from sunup to sundown, and trade for credits to get whatever else they need.”

“The town savior,” Ragen said wryly. “And you asking nothing in return.”

“Nothing but a tidy profit,” Rusco said with a grin.

“And how often do the villagers try to string you up for a cheat?” Ragen asked.

Rusco’s eyes narrowed. “Too often, considering half of them can’t count past their fingers, and the other half can only add their toes to that,” he said.

“Selia said the next time it happens, you’re on your own”—Ragen’s friendly voice had suddenly gone hard—“unless you do your part. There’s plenty on the far side of town suffering worse than having to read the mail.”

Rusco frowned, but he took the list and carried the heavy bag into his storeroom.

“How bad is it, really?” he asked when he returned.

“Bad,” Ragen said. “Twenty-seven so far, and a few still unaccounted for.”

“Creator,” Rusco swore, drawing a ward in the air in front of him. “I had thought a family, at worst.”

“If only,” Ragen said.

They were both silent for a moment, as was decent, then looked up at each other as one.

“You have this year’s salt?” Rusco asked.

“You have the duke’s rice?” Ragen replied.

“Been holding it all winter, you being so late,” Rusco said.

Ragen’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh, it’s still good!” Rusco said, his hands coming up suddenly, as if pleading. “I’ve kept it sealed and dry, and there are no vermin in my cellar!”

“I’ll need to be sure, you understand,” Ragen said.

“Of course, of course,” Rusco said. “Arlen, fetch that lamp!” he ordered, pointing the boy toward the corner of the bar.

Arlen scurried over to the lantern, picking up the striker. He lit the wick and lowered the glass reverently. He had never been trusted to hold glass before. It was colder than he imagined, but quickly grew warm as the flame licked it.

“Carry it down to the cellar for us,” Rusco ordered. Arlen tried to contain his excitement. He had always wanted to see behind the bar. They said if everyone in the Brook put all their possessions in one pile, it would not rival the wonders of Hog’s cellar.

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?”