'It's good of you to help her,' Arlen said, feeling a little better. 'She was pretty when she smiled.'
'You can't help everyone, Arlen,' Ragen said, 'but you should make every effort to help those you can.' Arlen nodded.
They wound their way up a hill until they reached a large manse. A gated wall six feet high surrounded the sprawling property, and the great house itself was three stories high and had dozens of windows, all reflecting light from their glass. It was bigger than the great hall on Boggin's Hill, and that could hold everyone in Tibbet's Brook for the solstice feast. The manse and the wall around it were painted with brightly coloured wards. Such a magnificent place, Arlen decided, must be the home of the duke.
'My mam had a cup of warded glass, hard as steel,' he said, looking up at the windows as a thin man came scurrying up from inside the grounds to open the gate. 'She kept it hidden, but sometimes she took it out when company came, to show how it glittered.' They rode past a garden untouched by coreling mischief, where several hands were digging vegetables.
'This is one of the only manses in Miln with all glass windows,' Ragen said proudly.
There were smaller buildings on the grounds as well, stone huts with smoking chimneys and people going to and fro, like a tiny village. Dirty children scampered about, and women kept watch over them while tending their chores. They rode to the stables, and a groom was there in a second to take Nighteye's reins. He bowed and scraped to Ragen like he was a king in a story.
'I thought we were going to stop by your house before visiting (he duke,' Arlen asked.
Ragen laughed. 'This is my house, Arlen! Do you think I risk the open road for nothing?'
Arlen looked back at the house, his eyes bulging. 'This is all yours?' he asked.
'All of it,' Ragen confirmed. 'Dukes are free with their coin to those who stare down corelings.'
'But Graig's house was so small,' Arlen protested.
'Graig was a good man,' Ragen said, 'but he was never more than a passable Messenger. He was content to make a run to Tibbet's Brook each year, and shuttle to the local hamlets in between. A man like that might support his family, but no more. The only reason there was so much profit for Jenya was that I paid for the extra goods I sold Hog out of my own purse. Graig used to have to borrow from the Guild, and they took a hard cut.'
A tall man opened the door to the house with a bow. He was stone faced, wearing a faded blue coat of dyed wool. His face and clothes were clean, a sharp contrast to those in the yard. As soon as they entered, a boy not much older than Arlen sprang to his feet. He too wore a blue coat, and ran to a bell rope at the base of a broad, marble stair. Chimes rang through the house.
'I see your luck has held one more time,' a woman called a moment later. She had dark hair and piercing blue eyes. She wore a deep blue gown, finer than anything Arlen had ever seen, and her wrists and throat sparkled with jewels. Her smile was cold as she regarded them from the marble balcony above the foyer. Arlen had never seen a woman so beautiful or graceful.
'My wife, Elissa,' Ragen advised quietly. 'A reason to return…and a reason to leave.' Arlen was unsure if he was joking. The woman did not seem pleased to see them.
'One of these times, the corelings will have you,' Elissa said as she descended the stairs, 'and I will finally be free to wed my young lover.'
'Never happen,' Ragen said with a smile, drawing her close for a kiss. Turning to Arlen, he explained, 'Elissa dreams of the day when she will inherit my fortune. I guard against the corelings as much to spite her as to protect myself.'
Elissa laughed, and Arlen relaxed. 'Who is this?' she asked. 'A stray to save you the work of filling my belly with a child of our own?'
'The only work is melting your frozen petticoats, my dear,' Ragen shot back. 'May I present Arlen, of Tibbet's Brook. I met him on the road.'
'On the road?' Elissa asked. 'He's just a child!'
'I'm not a child!' Arlen shouted, then immediately felt foolish. Ragen eyed him wryly, and he dropped his gaze.
Elissa gave no sign that she heard the outburst. 'Doff your armour and find the bath,' she ordered her husband, 'you smell like sweat and rust. I'll see to our guest.'
As Ragen left, Elissa called a servant to prepare Arlen a snack. Ragen seemed to have more servants than there were people in Tibbet's Brook. They cut him slices of cold ham and a thick crust of bread, with clotted cream and milk to wash it down. Elissa watched him eat, but Arlen couldn't think of anything to say, and kept his attention on his plate.
As he was finishing the cream, a serving woman in a dress of the same blue as the men's jackets entered and bowed to Elissa. 'Master Ragen awaits you upstairs,' she said.
'Thank you, Mother,' Elissa replied. Her face took on a strange cast for a moment, as she absently ran her fingers over her stomach. Then she smiled and looked at Arlen. 'Take our guest to the bath,' she ordered, 'and don't let him up for air until you can tell what colour his skin is.' She laughed and swept out of the room.
Arlen, used to standing in a trough and dumping cold water over himself, was out of sorts at the sight of Ragen's deep stone tub. He waited as the serving woman, Margrit, poured a kettle of boiling water in to take the chill from his soak. She was tall, like everyone in Miln, with kind eyes and honey-coloured hair showing just a hint of grey peeking from underneath her bonnet. She turned her back while Arlen undressed and got into the tub. She gasped as she saw the stitched wounds on his back, and quickly moved to inspect them.
'Ow!' Arlen shouted as she pinched the uppermost wound.
'Don't be such a baby,' she scolded, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together and sniffing at them. Arlen bit down as she repeated the process down his back. 'You're luckier than you know,' she said at last. 'When Ragen told me you were hurt, I thought it must be just a scratch, but this…' She tsked at him. 'Didn't your mother teach you not to be outside at night?'
Arlen's retort died on a sniffle. He bit his lip, determined not to cry. Margrit noticed, and immediately softened her tone. 'These are healing well,' she said of his wounds. She took a cake of soap and began to gently wash them. Arlen grit his teeth. 'When you're done in the bath, I'll prepare a poultice and fresh bandages for you.'
Arlen nodded. 'Are you Elissa's mother?' he asked.
The woman laughed. 'Creator, boy, whatever gave you that idea?'
'She called you 'mother',' Arlen said.
'Because I am,' Margrit said proudly. 'Two sons and three daughters, one of them soon to be a Mother herself.' She shook her head sadly. 'Poor Elissa, all her wealth, and still a Daughter, and her on the dark side of thirty! It breaks the heart.'
'Is being a mam so important?' Arlen asked.
The woman regarded him as if he had asked if air were important. 'What could be more important than motherhood?' she asked. 'It's every woman's duty to produce children to keep the city strong. That's why Mothers get the best rations and first pick of the morning market. It's why all the duke's councillors are Mothers. Men are good for breaking and building, but politics and papers are best left to women who've been to the Mother's School. Why, it's Mothers that vote to choose a new duke when the old one passes!'
'Then why isn't Elissa one?' Arlen asked.
'It's not for lack of trying,' Margrit admitted. 'I'll wager she's at it right now. Six weeks on the road will make any man a bull, and I brewed fertility tea and left it on her nightstand. Maybe it will help, though any fool knows the best time to make a baby is just before dawn.'
'Then why haven't they made one?' Arlen asked. He knew making babies had something to do with the games Renna and Beni had wanted to play, but he was still vague on the process.
'Only the Creator knows,' Margrit said. 'Elissa might be barren, or it might be Ragen, though that would be a shame. There's a shortage of good men like him. Miln needs his sons.'
She sighed. 'Elissa's lucky he hasn't left her, or gotten a child on one of the servant girls. Creator knows, they're willing.'
'He
would leave his wife?' Arlen was aghast.
'Don't look so surprised, boy,' Margit said. 'Men need heirs, and they'll get them any way they can. Duke Euchor is on his third wife, and still not a son to show for it!'
She shook her head. 'Not Ragen, though. They fight like corelings sometimes, but he loves Elissa like the sun itself. He'd never leave. Nor Elissa, despite what she's given up.'
'Given up?' Arlen asked.
'She was a Noble, you know,' Margrit said. 'Her mother is on the duke's council. Elissa could have served the duke, too, if she'd married another Noble and got with child. But she married down to be with Ragen, against her mother's wishes. They haven't spoken since. Elissa's Merchant now, if well moneyed.
Denied the Mother's School, she'll never hold any position in the city, much less one in the duke's service.'
Arlen was quiet while Margrit rinsed out his wounds and collected his clothes off the tiles. She tsked as she inspected the rips and stains. 'I'll mend these as best I can while you soak,' she promised, and left him to his bath. While she was gone, Arlen tried to make sense of everything she had told him, but there was too much he didn't understand.
Margrit reminded Arlen a little of Catrin Hog, Rusco's daughter. 'She'd tell you every secret in the world, if it let her hear her own voice a moment longer,' Silvy used to say.
The woman returned later with fresh, if ill-fitting clothes. She bandaged his wounds and helped him dress, despite his protests. He had to roll up the tunic sleeves to find his hands, and cuff his breeches to keep him from tripping, but Arlen felt clean for the first time in weeks.
He shared an early supper with Ragen and Elissa. Ragen had trimmed his beard, tied back his hair, and donned a fine white shirt with a deep blue suede jacket and breeches.
A pig had been slaughtered on Ragen's arrival, and the table was soon laden with pork chops, ribs, rashers of bacon, and succulent sausage. Flagons of chilled ale and clear, cold water, were served. Elissa frowned when Ragen signalled a servant to pour Arlen an ale, but she said nothing. She sipped wine from a glass so delicate Arlen was afraid her slender fingers would break it. There was crusty bread, whiter than he had ever seen, and bowls of boiled turnips and potatoes, thick with butter.
As he looked out over the food, his mouth watering, Arlen couldn't help but remember people out in the city begging for something to eat. Still, his hunger soon overcame his guilt, and he sampled everything, filling his plate again and again.
'Creator, where are you putting it all?' Elissa asked, clapping her hands in amusement as she watched Arlen clean another plate. 'Is there a chasm in your belly?'
'Ignore her, Arlen,' Ragen advised. 'Women will fuss all day in the kitchen, yet fear to take more than a nibble, lest they seem indelicate. Men know better how to appreciate a meal.'
'He's right, you know,' Elissa said with a roll of her eyes. 'Women can hardly appreciate the subtleties of life as men do.' Ragen started and spilled his ale, and Arlen realized that she had kicked him under the table. Arlen decided he liked her.
After supper a page appeared, wearing a grey tabard with the duke's shield emblazoned on the front. He reminded Ragen of his appointment and the Messenger sighed, but assured the page they would be along directly.
'Arlen is hardly dressed to meet the duke,' Elissa fussed. 'One does not go before His Grace looking like a Beggar.'
'There's nothing for it, love,' Ragen replied. 'We have only a few hours before sunset. We can hardly have a tailor come in time.'
Elissa refused to accept that. She stared at the boy for a long moment, then snapped her fingers, striding out of the room. She returned soon after with a blue doublet and a pair of polished leather boots.
'One of our pages is near your age,' she told Arlen as she helped him into the jacket and boots. The sleeves of the doublet were short, and the boots pinched his feet, but Lady Elissa seemed satisfied. She ran a comb through his hair and stepped back.
'Good enough,' she said with a smile. 'Mind your manners before the duke, Arlen,' she counselled. Arlen, feeling awkward in the ill-fitting clothes, smiled and nodded.
The Duke's Keep was a warded fortress within the warded fortress of Miln. The outer wall was fitted stone, over twenty feet high, heavily warded and patrolled by armoured spearmen. They rode through the gate into a wide courtyard, which circled the short. They crowded around the entrance to listen as Ragen and Arlen entered.
Arlen felt dwarfed by the audience chamber of Duke Euchor of Miln. The domed ceiling of the room was stories high, and ensconced torches rested on the great columns surrounding Euchor's throne. Each column had wards carved into the marble.
'Greater petitioners,' Ragen said quietly, indicating the men and women moving about the room. 'They tend to cluster.' He nodded to a large group of men standing close to the door. 'Merchant princes,' he said. 'Spreading gold around for the right to stand around the palace, sniffing for news, or a Noble to marry off their daughters to.'
'There,' he nodded towards a cluster of old women standing ahead of the Merchants, 'the Council of Mothers, waiting to give Euchor his day's reports.'
Closer to the throne was a group of sandaled men in plain brown robes, standing with quiet dignity. A few spoke in murmurs, as others took down their every word. 'Every court needs its Holy Men,' Ragen explained.
He pointed at last to a swarm of richly dressed people buzzing about the duke, attended by an army of servants laden with trays of food and drink. 'Nobles,' Ragen said. 'The duke's nephews and cousins and second cousins thrice removed, all clamouring for his ear and dreaming of what will happen if Euchor vacates his throne without an heir. The duke hates them.'
'Why doesn't he send them away?' Arlen asked.
'Because they're Nobles,' Ragen said, as if that explained everything.
They were halfway to the duke's throne when a tall woman moved to intercept them. Her hair was kept at bay in a cloth wrap, and her face was pinched and lined with wrinkles so deep it looked as if wards were carved into her cheeks. She moved with arched dignity, but a little wattle of flesh beneath her chin shook of its own accord. She had Selia's air about her; a woman accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed without question. She looked down at Arlen and sniffed as if she had smelled a dung heap. Her gaze snapped up at Ragen.
'Euchor's Chamberlain, Jone,' Ragen muttered while they were still out of earshot. 'Mother, Noble, and a seventh breed of coreling. Don't stop walking unless I do, or she'll have you waiting in the stables while I see the duke.'
'Your page will have to wait in the hall, Messenger,' Jone said, stepping in front of them.
'He's not my page,' Ragen said, continuing forward. Arlen kept pace, and the chamberlain was forced to sacrifice her dignity to scurry out of the way.
'His Grace doesn't have time for every stray off the street, Ragen!' she hissed, hurrying to keep pace with the Messenger. 'Who is he?'
Ragen stopped, and Arlen stopped with him. He turned and glared at the woman, leaning in. Mother Jone might have been tall, but Ragen was taller, and he outweighed her thrice over. The sheer menace of his presence shrank her back involuntarily.
'He is who I have chosen to bring,' he said through his teeth. He thrust a satchel filled with letters at her, and Jone took it reflexively. As she did, the Merchants and Mother's Council swarmed her, along with the Tenders' acolytes.
The Nobles noted the movement, and made comments or gestures to those next to them. Suddenly, half their entourage broke away, and Arlen realized those were just well dressed servants. The Nobles acted as if nothing of note was happening, but their servants shoved as hard as any to get close to that satchel.
Jone passed the letters on to a servant of her own and hurried towards the throne to announce Ragen, though she needn't have bothered. Ragen's entrance had caused enough of a stir that the man could not have failed to note him. Euchor was watching as they approached.
The duke was a heavyset man in his late fifties, with salt and pepper hair
and a thick beard. He wore a green tunic, freshly stained with grease from his fingers, but richly embroidered with gold thread, and a fur-lined cloak. His fingers glittered with rings, and about his brow he wore a circlet of gold.
'At last, you deign to grace us with your presence,' the duke called out, though it seemed he was speaking more to the rest of the room than to Ragen. Indeed, the observation had the Nobles nodding and murmuring amongst themselves, and caused several heads to pop up from the cluster around the mail. 'Was my business not pressing enough?' he asked.
Ragen advanced to the dais, meeting the duke's gaze with a stony one of his own. 'Forty-five days from here to Angiers and back by way of Tibbet's Brook!' he said loudly. 'Thirty and seven nights slept outside, while corelings slashed at my wards!' He never took his eyes from the duke, but Arlen knew he too was speaking to the room. Most of those assembled blanched and shuddered at his words.
'Six weeks gone from my home, Your Grace,' Ragen said, lowering his voice by half, but still carrying it to all ears. 'Do you begrudge me a bath and a meal with my wife?'
The duke hesitated, his eyes flicking about the court. Finally, he gave a great booming laugh. 'Of course not!' he called. 'An offended duke can make a man's life difficult, but not half so much as an offended wife!'
The tension shattered as the court broke into laughter. 'I would speak to my Messenger alone!' the duke commanded, once the laughter faded. There were grumbles from those eager for news, but Jone signalled her servant to leave with the letters, and that took most of the court with her. The Nobles lingered a moment, until Jone cracked her hands together. The retort made them jump, and they filed out as quickly as dignity would allow.
'Stay,' Ragen murmured to Arlen, stopping a respectful distance from the throne. Jone signalled the guards, who pulled the heavy doors closed, remaining inside. Unlike the men at the gate, these looked alert and professional. Jone moved to stand beside her lord.
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