The Warded Man

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 andcan 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 center of the Brook, Town Square held a few 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 center 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 most everything of value in the Brook.
    The kitchen was run by Hog’s daughters, Dasy and Catrin. 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 morelikely 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-gray 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.
    “Arlen Bales,” he said with a patient smile, seeing the boy. “Did you come just to play with the bell, or do you have some business?”
    “The business is mine,” Ragen said, stepping forward. “You Rusco Hog?”
    “Just Rusco will do,” the man said. “The townies