The Demon Cycle Books 1-3 and Novellas: The Painted Man, The Desert Spear, The Daylight War plus The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold and Messenger’s Legacy. Peter V. Brett
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?’
‘Against that thing?’ Woron asked. ‘Probably just soil themselves.’
Pushing away from the workbench, Arlen stretched and got to his feet. The sun was long set, and his stomach growled irritably, but the baker was paying double to have his wards repaired in one night, even though a demon hadn’t been spotted on the streets in Creator only knew how long. He hoped Cob had left something for him in the cookpot.
Arlen opened the shop’s back door and leaned out, still safely within the warded semicircle around the doorway. He looked both ways, and assured that all was clear, he stepped onto the path, careful not to cover the wards with his foot.
The path from the back of Cob’s shop to his small cottage was safer than most houses in Miln, a series of individually warded squares made of poured stone. The stone – crete, Cob called it – was a science left over from the old world, a wonder unheard of in Tibbet’s Brook but quite common in Miln. Mixing powdered silicate and lime with water and gravel formed a muddy substance that could be moulded and hardened into any shape. It was possible to pour crete, and, as it began to set, carefully scratch wards into its soft substance that hardened into near-permanent protections. Cob had done this, square by square, until a path ran from his home to his shop. Even if one square were somehow compromised, a walker could simply move to the one ahead or behind, and remain safe from corelings.
If we could make a road like this, Arlen thought, the world would be at our fingertips.
Inside the cottage, he found Cob hunched over his desk, poring over chalked slates.
‘Pot’s warm,’ the master grunted, not looking up. Arlen moved over to the fireplace in the cottage’s single room and filled a bowl with Cob’s thick stew.
‘Creator, boy, you started a mess with this,’ Cob growled, straightening and gesturing to the slates. ‘Half the Warders in Miln are content to keep their secrets, even at the loss of ours, and half of those left keep offering money instead, but the quarter that remain have flooded my desk with lists of wards they’re willing to barter. It will be weeks in the sorting!’
‘Things will be better for it,’ Arlen said, using a crust of hard bread as a spoon as he sat on the floor, eating hungrily. The corn and beans were still hard, and the potatoes mushy from over-boiling, but he didn’t complain. He was accustomed to the tough, stunted vegetables of Miln by now, and Cob could never be bothered to boil them separately.
‘I daresay you’re right,’ Cob admitted, ‘but night! Who thought there were so many different wards right in our own city! Half I’ve never seen in my life, and I’ve scrutinized every wardpost and portal in Miln, I assure you!’
He held up a chalked slate. ‘This one is willing to trade wards that will make a demon turn around and forget what it was doing for your mother’s ward to make glass as hard as steel.’ He shook his head. ‘And they all want the secrets of your forbidding wards, boy. They’re easier to draw without a straightstick and a semicircle.’
‘Crutches for people who can’t draw a straight line,’ Arlen smirked.
‘Not everyone is as gifted as you,’ Cob grunted.
‘Gifted?’ Arlen asked.
‘Don’t let it go to your head, boy,’ Cob said, ‘but I’ve never seen anyone pick up warding as quick as you. Eighteen months into your apprenticeship, and you ward like a five-year journeyman.’
‘I’ve been thinking about our deal,’ Arlen said.
Cob looked up at him curiously.
‘You promised that if I worked hard,’ Arlen said, ‘you’d teach me to survive the road.’
They stared at one another a long while. ‘I’ve kept my part,’ Arlen reminded.
Cob blew out a sigh. ‘I suppose you have,’ he said. ‘Have you been practising your riding?’ he asked.
Arlen nodded. ‘Ragen’s groom lets me help exercise the horses.’
‘Double your efforts,’ Cob said. ‘A Messenger’s horse is his life. Every night your steed saves you from spending outside is a night out of risk.’ The old Warder got to his feet, opening a closet and pulling out a thick rolled cloth. ‘On Seventhdays, when we close the shop,’ he said, ‘I’ll coach your riding, and I’ll teach you to use these.’
He laid the cloth on the floor and unrolled it, revealing a number of well-oiled spears. Arlen eyed them hungrily.
Cob looked up at the chimes as a young boy entered his shop. He was about thirteen, with tousled dark curls and a fuzz of moustache at his lip that looked more like grime than hair.
‘Jaik, isn’t it?’ the Warder asked. ‘Your family works the mill down by the East Wall, don’t they? We quoted you once for new wards, but the miller went with