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

      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.’