The Warded Man

take Rojer with you. Maybe that will remind you what’s really important.”
    Jessum swallowed his scowl and squatted before his son. “Want to go see the bridge, Rojer?” he asked.
    “Fishing?” Rojer asked. He loved to fish off the side of the bridge with his father.
    Jessum laughed, sweeping Rojer into his arms. “Not today,” he said. “Your mum wants us to have a word with Piter.”
    He sat Rojer up on his shoulders. “Now hold on tight,” he said, and Rojer held on to his father’s head as he ducked out the door. His cheeks were scratchy with stubble.
    It wasn’t far to the bridge. Riverbridge was small even for a hamlet; just a handful of houses and shops, the barracks for the men-at-arms who collected tolls, and his parents’ inn. Rojer waved to the guards as they passed the tollhouse, and they waved back.
    The bridge spanned the Dividing River at its narrowest point. Built in generations gone, it had two arches, spanning over three hundred feet, and was wide enough for a large cart with a horse to either side. A team of Milnese engineers maintainedthe ropes and supports daily. The Messenger Road—the only road—stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction.
    Master Piter was at the far end, shouting instructions over the side of the bridge. Rojer followed his gaze, and saw his apprentices hanging from slings as they warded the underside.
    “Piter!” Jessum called when they were halfway across the bridge.
    “Ay, Jessum!” the Warder called. Jessum put Rojer down as he and Piter shook hands.
    “Bridge is looking good,” Jessum noted. Piter had replaced most of his simpler painted wards with intricate etched calligraphy, lacquered and polished.
    Piter smiled. “The duke will fill his breeches when he sees my warding,” he proclaimed.
    Jessum laughed. “Kally’s scouring the inn as we speak,” he said.
    “Make the duke happy and your future’s set,” Piter said. “A word of praise in the right ears, and we could be plying our trades in Angiers and not this backwater.”
    “This ‘backwater’ is my home,” Jessum said, scowling. “My grandda was born in Riverbridge, and if I have my say, my grandkids will be, too.”
    Piter nodded. “No offense meant,” he said. “I just miss Angiers.”
    “So go back,” Jessum said. “The road is open, and a single night out on the road is no great feat for a Warder. You don’t need the duke for that.”
    Piter shook his head. “Angiers is teeming with Warders,” he said. “I would just be another leaf in the forest. But if I could claim the duke’s favor, it would put a line out my door.”
    “Well, it’s my door I’m worried about today,” Jessum said. “The wards’re peeling off, and Kally don’t think they’ll last the night. Can you come take a look?”
    Piter blew out a breath. “I told you yesterday …” he began, but Jessum cut him off.
    “I know what you told me, Piter, but I’m telling you it ent enough,” he said. “I won’t have my boy sleeping behind weak wards so you can make the ones on the bridge a bit artier. Can’t you just patch them for the night?”
    Piter spat. “You can do that yourself, Jessum. Just trace the lines. I’ll give you paint.”
    “Rojer wards better than me, and that’s not at all,” Jessum said. “I’d make a botch of it, and Kally would kill me if the corelings didn’t.”
    Piter scowled. He was about to reply when there was a shout from down the road.
    “Ay, Riverbridge!”
    “Geral!” Jessum called. Rojer looked up in sudden interest, recognizing the Messenger’s bulky frame. His mouth watered at the sight. Geral always had a sweet for him.
    Another man rode next to him, a stranger, but his Jongleur’s motley put the boy at ease. He thought of how the last Jongleur had sung and danced and walked upside down on his hands, and he hopped with excitement. Rojer loved Jongleurs more than anything.
    “Little Rojer, gone and grown another six inches!” Geral cried, pulling up his horse and leaping down to pick Rojer up. He was tall and built like a rain barrel, with a round face and grizzled beard. Rojer had been afraid of him once, with his metal shirt and the demon scar that turned his lower lip into an angry pucker, but no more. He laughed as Geral tickled him.
    “Which pocket?” Geral asked, holding the boy at arms’ length. Rojer pointed immediately. Geral always kept the sweets in the same place.
    The big Messenger laughed, retrieving a Rizonan