Arlen ran his thumb over each smooth, lacquered ward, feeling their strength. There was one of the little plates for every foot of rope, much as there would be in any warding. He counted more than forty of them. ‘Can’t wind demons fly into a circle this big?’ he asked. ‘Da puts posts up to keep them from landing in the fields.’
The man looked over at him, a little surprised. ‘Your da’s probably wasting his time,’ he said. ‘Wind demons are strong fliers, but they need running space or something to climb and leap from in order to take off. Not much of either in a cornfield, so they’d be reluctant to land, unless they saw something too tempting to resist, like some little boy sleeping in the field on a dare.’ He looked at Arlen in that same way Jeph did, when warning Arlen that the corelings were serious business. As if he didn’t know.
‘Wind demons also need to turn in wide arcs,’ Ragen continued, ‘and most of them have a wingspan larger than that circle. It’s possible that one could get in, but I’ve never seen it happen. If it does, though …’ He gestured to the long, thick spear he kept next to him.
‘You can kill a coreling with a spear?’ Arlen asked.
‘Probably not,’ Ragen replied, ‘but I’ve heard that you can stun them by pinning them against your wards.’ He chuckled. ‘I hope I never have to find out.’
Arlen looked at him, wide-eyed.
Ragen looked back at him, his face suddenly serious. ‘Messengering’s dangerous work, boy,’ he said.
Arlen stared at him a long time. ‘It would be worth it, to see the Free Cities,’ he said at last. ‘Tell me true, what’s Fort Miln like?’
‘It’s the richest and most beautiful city in the world,’ Ragen replied, lifting his mail sleeve to reveal a tattoo on his forearm of a city nestled between two mountains. ‘The Duke’s Mines run rich with salt, metal, and coal. Its walls and rooftops are so well warded, it’s rare for the house wards to even be tested. When the sun shines on its walls, it puts the mountains themselves to shame.’
‘Never seen a mountain,’ Arlen said, marvelling as he traced the tattoo with a finger. ‘My da says they’re just big hills.’
‘You see that hill?’ Ragen asked, pointing north of the road.
Arlen nodded. ‘Boggin’s Hill. You can see the whole Brook from up there.’
Ragen nodded. ‘You know what a “hundred” means, Arlen?’ he asked.
Arlen nodded again. ‘Ten pairs of hands.’
‘Well even a small mountain is bigger than a hundred of your Boggin’s Hills piled on top of each other, and the mountains of Miln are not small.’
Arlen’s eyes widened as he tried to contemplate such a height. ‘They must touch the sky,’ he said.
‘Some are above it,’ Ragen bragged. ‘Atop them, you can look down at the clouds.’
‘I want to see that one day,’ Arlen said.
‘You could join the Messengers’ guild, when you’re old enough,’ Ragen said.
Arlen shook his head. ‘Da says the people that leave are deserters,’ he said. ‘He spits when he says it.’
‘Your da doesn’t know what he’s talking about,’ Ragen said. ‘Spitting doesn’t make things so. Without Messengers, even the Free Cities would crumble.’
‘I thought the Free Cities were safe?’ Arlen asked.
‘Nowhere is safe, Arlen. Not truly. Miln has more people and can absorb the deaths more easily than a place like Tibbet’s Brook, but the corelings still take a toll each year.’
‘How many people are in Miln?’ Arlen asked. ‘We have nine hundreds in Tibbet’s Brook, and Sunny Pasture up the ways is supposed to be almost as big.’
‘We have over thirty thousands in Miln,’ Ragen said proudly.
Arlen looked at him, confused.
‘A thousand is ten hundreds,’ the Messenger supplied.
Arlen thought a moment, then shook his head. ‘There ent that many people in the world,’ he said.
‘There are and more,’ Ragen said. ‘There’s a wide world out there, for those willing to brave the dark.’
Arlen didn’t answer, and they rode in silence for a time.
It took about an hour and a half for the trundling cart to reach Town Square. The centre of the Brook, Town Square held just over two dozen warded wooden houses for those whose trade did not have them working in the fields or rice paddies, fishing, or cutting wood. It was here one came to find the tailor and the baker, the farrier, the cooper, and the rest.
At the centre lay the square where people would gather, and the biggest building in the Brook, the general store. It had a large open front room that housed tables and the bar, an even larger storeroom in back, and a cellar below, filled with almost everything of value in the Brook.
Hog’s daughters, Dasy and Catrin, ran the kitchen. Two credits could buy a meal to leave you stuffed, but Silvy called old Hog a cheat, since two credits could buy enough raw grain for a week. Still, plenty of unmarried men paid the price, and not all for the food. Dasy was homely and Catrin fat, but Uncle Cholie said the men who married them would be set for life.
Everyone in the Brook brought Hog their goods, be it corn or meat or fur, pottery or cloth, furniture or tools. Hog took the items, counted them up, and gave the customers credits to buy other things at the store.
Things always seemed to cost a lot more than Hog paid for them, though. Arlen knew enough numbers to see that. There were some famous arguments when people came to sell, but Hog set the prices, and usually got his way. Just about everyone hated Hog, but they needed him all the same, and were more likely to brush his coat and open his doors than spit when he passed.
Everyone else in the Brook worked throughout the sun, and barely saw all their needs met, but Hog and his daughters always had fleshy cheeks, rounded bellies, and clean new clothes. Arlen had to wrap himself in a rug whenever his mother took his overalls to wash.
Ragen and Arlen tied off the mules in front of the store and went inside. The bar was empty. Usually the air inside the taproom was thick with bacon fat, but there was no smell of cooking from the kitchen today.
Arlen rushed ahead of the Messenger to the bar. Rusco had a small bronze bell there, brought with him when he came from the Free Cities. Arlen loved that bell. He slapped his hand down on it and grinned at the clear sound.
There was a thump in the back, and Rusco came through the curtains behind the bar. He was a big man, still strong and straight-backed at sixty, but a soft gut hung around his middle, and his iron-grey hair was creeping back from his lined forehead. He wore light trousers and leather shoes with a clean white cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled halfway up his thick forearms. His white apron was spotless, as always.
