Читать книгу: «The Demon Cycle Series Books 1 and 2», страница 13
‘What can I do for you, Ragen?’ the guildmaster asked.
‘This boy, Arlen, is from Tibbet’s Brook,’ Ragen said, gesturing to Arlen. ‘An orphan from a coreling attack, he has no family in Miln, but he wishes to apprentice as a Messenger.’
‘That’s all very well, Ragen, but what’s it to do with me?’ Vincin asked, never more than glancing Arlen’s way.
‘Malcum won’t take him unless he’s registered to ward,’ Ragen said.
‘Well, that is a problem,’ Vincin agreed.
‘The boy can already ward,’ Ragen said. ‘If you could see your way to …’
Vincin was already shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry, Ragen, but you’re not about to convince me that some backwater bumpkin can ward well enough for me to register him.’
‘The boy’s wards cut the arm off a rock demon,’ Ragen said.
Vincin laughed. ‘Unless you have the arm with you, Ragen, you can save that tale for the Jongleurs.’
‘Could you find him an apprenticeship, then?’ the Messenger asked.
‘Can he pay the apprenticeship fee?’ Vincin asked.
‘He’s an orphan off the road,’ Ragen protested.
‘Perhaps I can find a Warder to take him on as a Servant,’ the guildmaster offered.
Ragen scowled. ‘Thanks all the same,’ he said, ushering Arlen away.
They hurried back to Ragen’s manse, the sun fast setting. Arlen watched as the busy streets of Miln emptied, people carefully checking wards and barring their doors. Even with cobbled streets and thick, warded walls, everyone still locked themselves up at night.
‘I can’t believe you talked to the Duke like that,’ Arlen said as they went.
Ragen chuckled. ‘First rule of being a Messenger, Arlen,’ he said. ‘Merchants and Royals may pay your fee, but they’ll walk all over you, if you let them. You need to act like a king in their presence, and never forget who it is risking their life.’
‘It worked with Euchor,’ Arlen agreed.
Ragen scowled at the name. ‘Selfish pig,’ he spat. ‘He doesn’t care about anything but his own pockets.’
‘It’s okay,’ Arlen said. ‘The Brook survived without salt last fall. They can do it again.’
‘Perhaps,’ Ragen conceded, ‘but they shouldn’t have to. And you! A good duke would have asked why I brought a boy with me into his chamber. A good duke would have made you a ward of the throne, so you didn’t wind up begging on the street. And Malcum was no better! Would it have cored him to test your skill? And Vincin! If you’d had the ripping fee, that greedy bastard would have had a master to apprentice you by sunset! Servant, he says!’
‘Ent an apprentice a servant?’ Arlen asked.
‘Not in the slightest,’ Ragen said. ‘Apprentices are Merchant class. They master a trade and then go into business for themselves, or with another master. Servants will never be anything but, unless they marry up, and I’ll be damned before I let them turn you into one.’
He lapsed into silence, and Arlen, though he was still confused, thought it best not to press him further.
It was full dark not long after they crossed Ragen’s wards, and Margrit showed Arlen to a guest room that was half the size of Jeph’s entire house. At the centre was a bed so high that Arlen had to hop to get in, and having never slept on anything but the ground or a hard straw pallet, he was shocked when he sank into the soft mattress.
He drifted off to slumber quickly, but awoke soon after at the sound of raised voices. He slipped from the bed and left his room, following the sound. The halls of the great manse were empty, the servants having retired for the night. Arlen went to the top of the stairs, the voices becoming clearer. It was Ragen and Elissa.
‘… taking him in, and that’s final,’ he heard Elissa say. ‘Messengering’s no job for a boy anyway!’
‘It’s what he wants,’ Ragen insisted.
Elissa snorted. ‘Pawning Arlen off on someone else won’t alleviate your guilt over bringing him to Miln when you should have taken him home.’
‘Demon dung,’ Ragen snapped. ‘You just want someone to mother day and night.’
‘Don’t you dare turn this back on me!’ Elissa hissed. ‘When you decided not to take Arlen back to Tibbet’s Brook, you took responsibility for him! It’s time to own up to that and stop looking for someone else to care for him.’
Arlen strained to hear, but there was no response from Ragen for some time. He wanted to go down and barge into the conversation. He knew Elissa meant well, but he was growing tired of adults planning out his life for him.
‘Fine,’ Ragen said at last. ‘What if I send him to Cob? He won’t encourage the boy to be a Messenger. I’ll put up the full fee, and we can visit the shop regularly to keep an eye on him.’
‘I think that’s a great idea,’ Elissa agreed, the peevishness gone from her voice. ‘But there’s no reason Arlen can’t stay here, instead of on a hard bench in some cluttered workshop.’
‘Apprenticeships aren’t meant to be comfortable,’ Ragen said. ‘He’ll need to be there from dawn till dusk if he’s to master wardcraft, and if he follows through with his plans to messenger, he’ll need all the training he can get.’
‘Fine,’ Elissa huffed, but her voice softened a moment later. ‘Now come put a baby in my belly,’ she husked.
Arlen hurried back to his room.
As always, Arlen’s eyes opened before dawn, but for a moment he thought he was still asleep, drifting on a cloud. Then he remembered where he was and stretched out, feeling the delicious softness of the feathers stuffed into the mattress and pillow, and the warmth of the thick quilt. The fire in the room’s hearth had burned down to embers.
The temptation to stay abed was strong, but his bladder helped force him from the soft embrace. He slipped to the cold floor and fetched the pots from under the bed, as Margrit had instructed him. He made his water in one, and waste in the other, leaving them by the door to be collected for use in the gardens. The soil in Miln was stony, and its people wasted nothing.
Arlen went to the window. He had stared at it until his eyes drooped the night before, but the glass still fascinated him. It looked like nothing at all, but was hard and unyielding to the touch, like a wardnet. He traced a finger along the glass, making a line in the morning condensation. Remembering the wards from Ragen’s portable circle, he turned the line into one of the symbols. He traced several more, breathing on the glass to clear his work and start anew.
When he finished, he pulled on his clothes and went downstairs, finding Ragen sipping tea by a window, watching the sun rise over the mountains.
‘You’re up early,’ Ragen noted with a smile. ‘You’ll be a Messenger yet,’ he said, and Arlen swelled with pride.
‘Today I’m going to introduce you to a friend of mine,’ Ragen said. ‘A Warder. He taught me when I was your age, and he’s in need of an apprentice.’
‘Couldn’t I just apprentice to you?’ Arlen asked hopefully. ‘I’ll work hard.’
Ragen chuckled. ‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said, ‘but I’m a poor teacher, and spend more time out of town than in. You can learn a lot from Cob. He was a Messenger before I was even born.’
Arlen brightened at this. ‘When can I meet him?’ he asked.
‘The sun’s up,’ Ragen replied. ‘Nothing stopping us from going right after breakfast.’
Soon after, Elissa joined them in the dining room. Ragen’s servants set a grand table, with bacon and ham and bread smeared with honey, eggs and potatoes and big baked apples. Arlen wolfed the meal down, eager to be out in the city. When he finished, he sat staring at Ragen as he ate. Ragen ignored him, eating with maddening slowness as Arlen fidgeted.
Finally, the Messenger put down his fork and wiped his mouth. ‘Oh, very well,’ he said, rising. ‘We can go.’ Arlen beamed and jumped from his seat.
‘Not so fast,’ Elissa called, stopping both men short. Arlen was unprepared for the chord the words struck in him, an echo of his mother, and bit back a rush of emotion.
‘You’re not going anywhere until the tailor comes for Arlen’s measurements,’ she said.
‘What for?’ Arlen asked. ‘Margrit cleaned my clothes and sewed up all the rips.’
‘I appreciate the sentiment, love,’ Ragen said in Arlen’s defence, ‘but there’s hardly a rush for new clothes now that the interview with the Duke is past.’
‘This isn’t open to debate,’ Elissa informed them, drawing herself up. ‘I won’t have a guest in our house walking around looking like a pauper.’
The Messenger looked at the set of his wife’s brow, and sighed. ‘Let it go, Arlen,’ he advised quietly. ‘We’re not going anywhere until she’s satisfied.’
The tailor arrived soon after, a small man with nimble fingers who inspected every inch of Arlen with his knotted strings, carefully marking the information with chalk on a slate. When he was finished, he had a rather animated conversation with Lady Elissa, bowed, and left.
Elissa glided over to Arlen, bending to face him. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ she asked, straightening his shirt and brushing the hair from his face. ‘Now you can run along with Ragen to meet Master Cob.’ She caressed his cheek, her hand cool and soft, and for a moment he leaned into the familiar touch, but then pulled back sharply, his eyes wide.
Ragen caught the look, and noted the wounded expression on his wife’s face as Arlen backed slowly away from her as if she were a demon.
‘I think you hurt Elissa’s feelings back there, Arlen,’ Ragen said as they left his grounds.
‘She’s not my mam,’ Arlen said, suppressing his guilt.
‘Do you miss her?’ Ragen asked. ‘Your mother, I mean.’
‘Yes,’ Arlen answered quietly.
Ragen nodded, and said no more, for which Arlen was thankful. They walked on in silence, and the strangeness of Miln quickly took his mind off the incident. The smell of the dung carts was everywhere, as collectors went from building to building, gathering the night’s waste.
‘Gah!’ Arlen said, holding his nose. ‘The whole city smells worse than a barn stall! How do you stand it?’
‘It’s mostly just in the morning, as the collectors go by,’ Ragen replied. ‘You get used to it. We had sewers once, tunnels that ran under every home, carrying the waste away, but they were sealed centuries ago, when the corelings used them to get into the city.’
‘Couldn’t you just dig privy pits?’ Arlen asked.
‘Milnese soil is stony,’ Ragen said. ‘Those who don’t have private gardens to fertilize are required to put their waste out for collection to use in the Duke’s Gardens. It’s the law.’
‘It’s a smelly law,’ Arlen said.
Ragen laughed. ‘Maybe,’ he replied. ‘But it keeps us fed, and drives the economy. The collection guildmaster’s manse makes mine look like a hovel.’
‘I’m sure yours smells better,’ Arlen said, and Ragen laughed again.
At last they turned a corner and came to a small but sturdy shop, with wards delicately etched around the windows and into the lintel and jamb of the door. Arlen could appreciate the detail of those wards. Whoever made them had a skilled hand.
They entered to a chime of bells, and Arlen’s eyes widened at the contents of the shop. Wards of every shape and size, made in every medium, filled the room.
‘Wait here,’ Ragen said, moving across the room to speak with a man sitting on a workbench. Arlen barely noticed him go, wandering around the room. He ran his fingers reverently over wards woven into tapestry, etched into smooth river stones, and moulded from metal. There were carved posts for farmers’ fields, and a portable circle like Ragen’s. He tried to memorize the wards he saw, but there were just too many.
‘Arlen, come here!’ Ragen called after a few minutes. Arlen started, and rushed over.
‘This is Master Cob,’ Ragen introduced, gesturing to a man who was perhaps sixty. Short for a Milnese, he had the look of a strong man gone to fat. A thick grey beard, shot through with signs of its former black, covered his face, and his close-cropped hair was thin on top of his head. His skin was lined and leathern, and his grip swallowed Arlen’s hand.
‘Ragen tells me you want to be a Warder,’ Cob said, sitting back heavily on the bench.
‘No, sir,’ Arlen replied. ‘I want to be a Messenger.’
‘So does every boy your age,’ Cob said. ‘The smart ones wise up before they get themselves killed.’
‘Weren’t you a Messenger once?’ Arlen asked, confused at the man’s attitude.
‘I was,’ Cob agreed, lifting his sleeve to show a tattoo similar to Ragen’s. ‘I travelled to the five Free Cities and a dozen hamlets, and earned more money than I thought I could ever spend.’ He paused, letting Arlen’s confusion grow. ‘I also earned this,’ he said, lifting his shirt to show thick scars running across his stomach, ‘and this.’ He slipped a foot from his shoe to reveal a crescent of scarred flesh, long healed, where four of his toes had been.
‘To this day,’ Cob said, ‘I can’t sleep more than an hour without starting awake, reaching for my spear. Yes, I was a Messenger. A damned good one and luckier than most, but I still would not wish it on anyone. Messengering may seem glorious, but for every man who lives in a manse and commands respect like Ragen here, there are two dozen rotting on the road.’
‘I don’t care,’ Arlen said. ‘It’s what I want.’
‘Then I’ll make a deal with you,’ Cob sighed. ‘A Messenger must be, above all, a Warder, so I’ll apprentice you and teach you to be one. When we have time, I’ll teach you what I know of surviving the road. An apprenticeship lasts seven years. If you still wish to be a Messenger then … well, you’re your own man.’
‘Seven years?’ Arlen gawked.
Cob snorted. ‘You don’t pick up warding in a day, boy.’
‘I can ward now,’ Arlen said defiantly.
‘So Ragen tells me,’ Cob said. ‘He also tells me you do it with no knowledge of geometry or wardtheory. Eyeballing your wards may not get you killed tomorrow, boy, or next week, but it will get you killed.’
Arlen stomped a foot. Seven years seemed like an eternity, but deep down he knew the master was right. The pain in his back was a constant reminder that he wasn’t ready to face the corelings again. He needed the skills this man could teach him. He didn’t doubt that there were dozens of Messengers who fell to the demons, and he vowed not to become one of them because he was too stubborn to learn from his mistakes.
‘All right,’ he agreed finally. ‘Seven years.’
Section II
10
Apprentice 320 AR
‘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 wood, 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 signalled 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 chiselling into a stone post, and shrugged. ‘Any greybeard 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 doorjambs,’ Arlen disagreed, ‘not hoarding secrets that can save lives. Should we deny succour 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 amidst 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 chiselling.
‘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 dark tousled 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’.
Margrit had assured Arlen that Elissa had no lovers. In fact, when Ragen was away, she drifted the halls of their manse like a ghost, or spent hours crying in her bedchamber.
But when Arlen was around, the servant said, she changed. More than once, Margit had begged him to live at the manse full time. He refused, but, he admitted to himself if no one else, he was beginning to like Lady Elissa fussing over him.
‘Here he comes,’ Gaims said that night, watching the massive rock demon rise from the ground. Woron joined him, and they watched from the guard tower as the demon snuffled the ground by the gate. With a howl, it bounded away from the gate to a hilltop. A flame demon danced there, but the rock demon knocked it violently aside, bending low to the ground, seeking something.
‘Old One Arm’s in a mood tonight,’ Gaims said as the demon howled again and darted down the hill to a small field, scurrying back and forth, hunched over.
‘What do you suppose has gotten into him?’ Woron asked. His partner shrugged.
The demon left the field, bounding back up the hill. Its shrieks became almost pained, and when it returned to the gate, it struck at the wards madly, its talons sending showers of sparks as they were repelled by the potent magic.
‘Don’t see that every night,’ Woron commented. ‘Should we report it?’
‘Why bother?’ Gaims replied. ‘No one is going to care about the carryings-on of one crazy demon, and what could they do about it if they did?’
