The Warded Man

by Peter V. Brett

  “To what end?” Cob asked. “It would only get the hunters killed, and make no difference in the morning. Better to get inside. The sun will do for any corelings left in Miln.”

  “The sun is still hours away,” Arlen protested as he climbed into the cart.

  “What do you propose?” Cob asked, watching warily as they rode. “You saw the full force of the Duke’s Guard at work tonight, hundreds of men with spears and shields. Trained Warders, too. Did you see a single demon killed? Of course not. They are immortal.”

  Arlen shook his head. “They kill each other. I’ve seen it.”

  “They are magic, Arlen. They can do to one another what no mortal weapon can.”

  “The sun kills them,” Arlen said.

  “The sun is a power beyond you or me,” Cob said. “We are simply Warders.”

  They turned a corner, and gasped. An eviscerated corpse was splayed in the street before them, its blood painting the cobbles red. Parts of it still smoldered; the acrid stench of burned flesh was thick in the air.

  “Beggar,” Arlen said, noting the ragged clothes. “What was he doing out at night?”

  “Two beggars,” Cob corrected, holding a cloth over his mouth and nose as he gestured at further carnage not far off. “They must have been turned out of the shelter.”

  “They can do that?” Arlen asked. “I thought the public shelters had to take everyone.”

  “Only until they fill up,” Cob said. “Those places are scant succor, anyhow. The men will beat each other over food and clothes once the guards lock them in, and they do worse to the women. Many prefer to risk the streets.”

  “Why doesn’t someone do something about it?” Arlen asked.

  “Everyone agrees it’s a problem,” Cob said. “But the citizens say it is the duke’s problem, and the duke feels little need to protect those who contribute nothing to his city.”

  “So better to send the guard home for the night, and let the corelings take care of the problem,” Arlen growled. Cob had no reply save to crack the reins, eager to get off the streets.

  Two days later, the entire city was summoned to the great square. A gibbet had been erected, and upon it stood Warder Macks, who had been on duty the night of the breach.

  Euchor himself was not present, but Jone read his decree: “In the name of Duke Euchor, Light of the Mountains and Lord of Miln, you are found guilty of failing in your duties and allowing a breach in the wardwall. Eight Warders, two Messengers, three Herb Gatherers, thirty-seven guardsmen, and eighteen citizens paid the price for your incompetence.”

  “As if making it nine Warders will help,” Cob muttered. Boos and hisses came from the crowd, and bits of garbage were flung at the Warder, who stood with his head down.

  “The sentence is death,” Jone said, and hooded men took Macks’ arms and led him to the rope, putting the noose around his neck.

  A tall, broad-shouldered Tender with a bushy black beard and heavy robes went to him and drew a ward on his forehead. “May the Creator forgive your failing,” the Holy Man intoned, “and grant us all the purity of heart and deed to end His Plague and be Delivered.”

  He backed away, and the trapdoor opened. The crowd cheered as the rope went taut.

  “Fools,” Cob spat. “One less man to fight the next breach.”

  “What did he mean?” Arlen asked. “About the Plague and being delivered?”

  “Just nonsense to keep the crowd in line,” Cob said. “Best not to fill your head with it.”

  CHAPTER 12

  LIBRARY

  321 AR

  ARLEN WALKED EXCITEDLY behind Cob as they approached the great stone building. It was Seventhday, and normally he would have been annoyed at skipping his spear practice and riding lessons, but today was a treat too fine to miss: his first trip to the Duke’s Library.

  Ever since he and Cob had begun brokering wards, his master’s business had soared, filling a much-needed niche in the city. Their grimoire library had quickly become the largest in Miln, and perhaps the world. At the same time, word had gotten out about their involvement in sealing the breach, and never ones to miss a trend, the Royals had taken notice.

  Royals were an irritation to work with, always making ridiculous demands and wanting wards put where they didn’t belong. Cob doubled, then tripled his prices, but it made no difference. Having one’s manse sealed by Cob the Wardmaster had become a status symbol.

  But now, called upon to ward the most valuable building in the city, Arlen knew it had been worth every moment. Few citizens ever saw inside the library. Euchor guarded his collection jealously, granting access only to greater petitioners and their aides.

  Built by the Tenders of the Creator before being absorbed by the throne, the library was always run by a Tender, usually one with no flock save the precious books. Indeed, the post carried more weight than presiding over any Holy House save for the Grand Holy House or the duke’s own shrine.

  They were greeted by an acolyte, and ushered to the office of the head librarian, Tender Ronnell. Arlen’s eyes darted every where as they walked, taking in the musty shelves and silent scholars who roamed the stacks. Not including grimoires, Cob’s collection had contained over thirty books, and Arlen had thought that a treasure. The Duke’s Library contained thousands, more than he could read in a lifetime. He hated that the duke kept it all locked away.

  Tender Ronnell was young for the coveted position of head librarian, still with more brown in his hair than gray. He greeted them warmly and sat them down, sending a servant to fetch some refreshment.

  “Your reputation precedes you, Master Cob,” Ronnell said, taking off his wire-rimmed glasses and cleaning them on his brown robe. “I hope you will accept this assignment.”

  “All the wards I’ve seen so far are still sharp,” Cob noted.

  Ronnell replaced his glasses and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “After the recent breach, the duke fears for his collection,” he said. “His Grace desires … special measures.”

  “What kind of special measures?” Cob asked suspiciously. Ronnell squirmed, and Arlen could tell that he was as uncomfortable making the request as he expected them to be in filling it.

  Finally, Ronnell sighed. “All the tables, benches, and shelves are to be warded against firespit,” he said flatly.

  Cob’s eyes bulged. “That would take months!” he sputtered. “And to what end? Even if a flame demon made it so deep into the city, it could never get past the wards of this building, and if it did, you’d have greater worries than the bookshelves.”

  Ronnell’s eyes hardened at that. “There is no greater worry, Master Cob,” he said. “In that, the duke and I agree. You cannot imagine what we lost when the corelings burned the libraries of old. We guard here the last shreds of knowledge that took millennia to accumulate.”

  “I apologize,” Cob said. “I meant no disrespect.”

  The librarian nodded. “I understand. And you are quite correct, the risk is minimal. Nevertheless, His Grace wants what he wants. I can pay a thousand gold suns.”

  Arlen ticked the math off in his head. A thousand suns was a lot of money, more than they had ever gotten for a single job, but when accounting for the months of work the job would entail, and the loss of regular business …

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Cob said at last. “Too much time away from my business.”

  “This would garner the duke’s favor,” Ronnell added.

  Cob shrugged. “I messengered for his father. That brought me favor enough. I have little need for more. Try a younger Warder,” he suggested. “Someone with something to prove.”

  “His Grace mentioned your name specifically,” Ronnell pressed.

  Cob spread his hands helplessly.

  “I’ll do it,” Arlen blurted. Both men turned to him, surprised that he had been so bold.

  “I don’t think the duke will accept the services of an apprentice,” Ronnell said.

  Arlen shrugged. “No need to
tell him,” he said. “My master can plot the wards for the shelves and tables, leaving me to inscribe them.” He looked at Cob as he spoke. “If you had taken the job, I would have carved half the wards anyway, if not more.”

  “An interesting compromise,” Ronnell said thoughtfully.

  “What say you, Master Cob?”

  Cob looked at Arlen suspiciously. “I say this is a tedious job of the sort you hate,” he said. “What’s in it for you, lad?” he asked.

  Arlen smiled. “The duke gets to claim that Wardmaster Cob warded the library,” he began. “You get a thousand suns, and I”—he turned to Ronnell—“get to use the library whenever I wish.”

  Ronnell laughed. “A boy after my own heart!” he said. “Have we a deal?” he asked Cob. Cob smiled, and the men shook hands.

  Tender Ronnell led Cob and Arlen on an inspection of the library. As they went, Arlen began to realize what a colossal task he had just undertaken. Even if he skipped the math and plotted the wards by sight, he was looking at the better part of a year’s work.

  Still, as he turned in place, taking in all the books, he knew it was worth it. Ronnell had promised him full access, day or night, for the rest of his life.

  Noting the look of enthusiasm on the boy’s face, Ronnell smiled. He had a sudden thought, and took Cob aside while Arlen was too occupied with his own thoughts to notice.

  “Is the boy an apprentice or a Servant?” he asked the Warder.

  “He’s Merchant, if that’s what you’re asking,” Cob said.

  Ronnell nodded. “Who are his parents?”

  Cob shook his head. “Hasn’t any; at least not in Miln.”

  “You speak for him, then?” Ronnell asked.

  “I would say the boy speaks for himself,” Cob replied.

  “Is he promised?” the Tender asked.

  There it was. “You’re not the first to ask me that, since my business rose,” Cob said. “Even some of the Royals have sent their pretty daughters to sniff at him. But I don’t think the Creator has made the girl that can pull his nose out of a book long enough to notice her.”

  “I know the feeling,” Ronnell said, gesturing to a young girl who was sitting at one of the many tables with half a dozen open books scattered before her.

  “Mery, come here!” he called. The girl looked up, and then deftly marked her pages and stacked her books before coming over. She looked close to Arlen’s fourteen summers, with large brown eyes and long, rich brown hair. She had a soft, round face, and a bright smile. She wore a utilitarian frock, dusty from the library, and she gathered the skirts, dipping a quick curtsy.

  “Wardmaster Cob, this is my daughter, Mery,” Ronnell said.

  The girl looked up, suddenly very interested. “The Wardmaster Cob?” she asked.

  “Ah, you know my work?” Cob asked.

  “No”—Mery shook her head—“but I’ve heard your grimoire collection is second to none.”

  Cob laughed. “We might have something here, Tender,” he said.

  Tender Ronnell bent to his daughter and pointed to Arlen. “Young Arlen there is Master Cob’s apprentice. He’s going to ward the library for us. Why don’t you show him around?”

  Mery watched Arlen as the boy gazed about, oblivious to her stare. His dirty blond hair was untrimmed and somewhat long, and his expensive clothes were rumpled and stained, but there was intelligence in his eyes. His features were smooth and symmetrical; not unpleasing. Cob heard Ronnell mutter a prayer as she smoothed her skirts and glided over to him.

  Arlen didn’t seem to notice Mery as she came over. “Hello,” she said.

  “Hullo,” Arlen replied, squinting to read the print on the spine of a high-shelved book.

  Mery frowned. “My name’s Mery,” she said. “Tender Ronnell is my father.”

  “Arlen,” Arlen said, pulling a book off the shelf and flipping through it slowly.

  “My father asked me to show you around the library,” Mery said.

  “Thanks,” Arlen said, putting the book back and walking down a row of shelves to a section of the library that was roped off from the rest. Mery was forced to follow, irritation flashing on her face.

  “She’s used to ignoring, not being ignored,” Ronnell noted, amused.

  “BR,” Arlen read on the archway over the roped section. “What’s BR?” he muttered.

  “Before Return,” Mery said. “Those are original copies of the books of the old world.”

  Arlen turned to her as if he had just noticed she existed. “Honest word?” he asked.

  “It’s forbidden to go back there without the duke’s permission,” Mery said, watching Arlen’s face fall. “Of course,” she smiled, “I am allowed, on account of my father.”

  “Your father?” Arlen asked.

  “I’m Tender Ronnell’s daughter,” she reminded, scowling.

  Arlen’s eyes widened, and he bowed awkwardly. “Arlen, of Tibbet’s Brook,” he said.

  From across the room, Cob chuckled. “Boy never had a chance,” he said.

  The months melted together for Arlen as he fell into a familiar routine. Ragen’s manse was closer to the library, so he slept there most nights. The Messenger’s leg had mended quickly, and he was soon on the road again. Elissa encouraged Arlen to treat the room as his own, and seemed to take a special pleasure at seeing it cluttered with his tools and books. The servants loved his presence as well, claiming Lady Elissa was less of a trial when he was about.

  Arlen would rise an hour before the sun, and practice his spear forms by lamplight in the manse’s high-ceilinged foyer. When the sun broke the horizon, he slipped into the yard for an hour of target practice and riding. This was followed by a hurried breakfast with Elissa—and Ragen when he was about—before he was off to the library.

  It was still early when he arrived, the library empty save for Ronnell’s acolytes, who slept in cells beneath the great building. These kept their distance, intimidated by Arlen, who thought nothing of walking up to their master and speaking without summons or permission.

  There was a small, isolated room designated as his workshop. It was just big enough for a pair of bookcases, his workbench, and whatever piece of furniture he was working on. One of the cases was filled with paints, brushes, and etching tools. The other was filled with borrowed books. The floor was covered in curled wood shavings, blotched from spilled paint and lacquer.

  Arlen took an hour each morning to read, then reluctantly put his book away and got to work. For weeks, he warded nothing but chairs. Then he moved on to benches. The job took even longer than expected, but Arlen didn’t mind.

  Mery became a welcome sight over these months, sticking her head into his workshop frequently to share a smile or a bit of gossip before scurrying off to resume her duties. Arlen had thought the interruptions from his work and study would grow tiresome, but the opposite proved true. He looked forward to seeing her, even finding his attention wandering on days when she did not visit with her usual frequency. They shared lunches on the library’s broad roof, overlooking the city and the mountains beyond.

  Mery was different from any girl Arlen had ever known. The daughter of the duke’s librarian and chief historian, she was possibly the most educated girl in the city, and Arlen found he could learn as much by talking to her as in the pages of any book. But her position was a lonely one. The acolytes were even more intimidated by her than they were by Arlen, and there was no one else her age in the library. Mery was perfectly comfortable arguing with gray-bearded scholars, but around Arlen she seemed shy and unsure of herself.

  Much as he felt around her.

  “Creator, Jaik, it’s as if you haven’t practiced at all,” Arlen said, covering his ears.

  “Don’t be cruel, Arlen,” Mery scolded. “Your song was lovely, Jaik,” she said.

  Jaik frowned. “Then why are you covering your ears, too?” he asked.

  “Well,” she said, taking her hands away with a bright smile, “my father says music and
dancing lead to sin, so I couldn’t listen, but I’m sure it was very beautiful.”

  Arlen laughed, and Jaik frowned, putting his lute away.

  “Try your juggling,” Mery suggested.

  “Are you sure it’s not a sin to watch juggling?” Jaik asked.

  “Only if it’s good,” Mery murmured, and Arlen laughed again.

  Jaik’s lute was old and worn, never seeming to have all its strings at one time. He set it down and pulled colored wooden balls from the small sack he kept his Jongleur’s equipment in. The paint was chipped and there were cracks in the wood. He put one ball into the air, then another, and a third. He held that number for several seconds, and Mery clapped her hands.

  “Much better!” she said.

  Jaik smiled. “Watch this!” he said, reaching for a fourth.

  Arlen and Mery both winced as the balls came clattering down to the cobblestones.

  Jaik’s face colored. “Maybe I should practice more with three,” he said.

  “You should practice more,” Arlen agreed.

  “My da doesn’t like it,” Jaik said. “He says ‘if you’ve nothing to do but juggle, boy, I’ll find some chores for you!’”

  “My father does that when he catches me dancing,” Mery said.

  They looked at Arlen expectantly. “My da used to do that, too,” he said.

  “But not Master Cob?” Jaik asked.

  Arlen shook his head. “Why should he? I do all he asks.”

  “Then when do you find time to practice messengering?” Jaik asked.

  “I make time,” Arlen said.

  “How?” Jaik asked.

  Arlen shrugged. “Get up earlier. Stay up later. Sneak away after meals. Whatever you need to do. Or would you rather stay a miller your whole life?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being a miller, Arlen,” Mery said.

  Jaik shook his head. “No, he’s right,” he said. “If this is what I want, I have to work harder.” He looked at Arlen. “I’ll practice more,” he promised.

  “Don’t worry,” Arlen said. “If you can’t entertain the villagers in the hamlets, you can earn your keep scaring off the demons on the road with your singing.”