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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 someone else.’
‘That’s right,’ the boy said, nodding.
‘What can I help you with?’ Cob asked. ‘Would your master like another quote?’
Jaik shook his head. ‘I just came to see if Arlen wants to see the Jongleur today.’
Cob could hardly believe his ears. He had never seen Arlen speak to anyone his own age, preferring to spend his time working and reading, or pestering the Messengers and Warders who visited the shop with endless questions. This was a surprise, and one to be encouraged.
‘Arlen!’ he called.
Arlen came out of the shop’s back room, a book in his hand. He practically walked into Jaik before he noticed the boy and pulled up short.
‘Jaik’s come to take you to see the Jongleur,’ Cob advised.
‘I’d like to go,’ Arlen told Jaik apologetically, ‘but I still have to …’
‘Nothing that can’t wait,’ Cob cut him off. ‘Go and have fun.’ He tossed Arlen a small pouch of coins and pushed the two boys out the door.
Soon after, the boys were wandering through the crowded marketplace surrounding the main square of Miln. Arlen spent a silver star to buy meat pies from a vendor, and then, their faces coated with grease, he handed over a few copper lights for a pocketful of sweets from another.
‘I’m going to be a Jongleur one day,’ Jaik said, sucking on a sweet as they made their way to the place where the children gathered.
‘Honest word?’ Arlen asked.
Jaik nodded. ‘Watch this,’ he said, pulling three small wooden balls from his pockets and putting them into the air. Arlen laughed a moment later, when one of the balls struck Jaik’s head, and the others dropped to the ground in the confusion.
‘Still got grease on my fingers,’ Jaik said as they chased after the balls.
‘I guess,’ Arlen agreed. ‘I’m going to register at the Messengers’ guild once my apprenticeship with Cob is over.’
‘I could be your Jongleur!’ Jaik shouted. ‘We could test for the road together!’
Arlen looked at him. ‘Have you ever even seen a demon?’ he asked.
‘What, you don’t think I have the stones for it?’ Jaik asked, shoving him.
‘Or the brains,’ Arlen said, shoving back. A moment later, they were scuffling on the ground. Arlen was still small for his age, and Jaik soon pinned him.
‘Fine, fine!’ Arlen laughed. ‘I’ll let you be my Jongleur!’
‘Your Jongleur?’ Jaik asked, not releasing him. ‘More like