The Warded Man

forward, but Jone signaled the guards to open the doors, and the greater petitioners swarmed back into the room. The duke’s attention was already turned away from the Messenger.
    Ragen intercepted Jone as she left Euchor’s side. “Mother,” he said, “about the boy …”
    “I’m very busy, Messenger,” Jone sniffed. “Perhaps you should ‘choose’ to bring him some time when I am less so.” She swept away from them with her head thrown back.
    One of the Merchants approached them. He was a bearlike man with only one eye, his other socket a gnarl of scarred flesh. On his breast was a symbol, a man on horseback with spear and satchel. “It’s good to see you safe, Ragen,” the man said. “You’ll be by the guild in the morning to give your report?”
    “Guildmaster Malcum,” Ragen said, bowing. “I’m glad to see you. I encountered this boy, Arlen, on the road …”
    “Between cities?” the guildmaster asked in surprise. “You should know better, boy!”
    “Several days between cities,” Ragen clarified. “The boy wards better than many Messengers.” Malcum arched his one eyebrow at that.
    “He wants to be a Messenger,” Ragen pressed.
    “You could not ask for a more honorable career,” Malcum told Arlen.
    “He has no one in Miln,” Ragen said. “I thought he might apprentice with the guild …”
    “Now, Ragen,” Malcum said, “you know as well as any that we only apprentice registered Warders. Try Guildmaster Vincin.”
    “The boy can already ward,” Ragen argued, though his tone was more respectful than it had been with Duke Euchor. Guildmaster Malcum was even larger than Ragen, and didn’t look like he could be intimidated by talk of nights outside.
    “Then he shouldn’t have any trouble getting the Warders’ Guild to register him,” Malcum said, turning away. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he called over his shoulder.
    Ragen looked around, spotting another man in the cluster of Merchants. “Lift your feet, Arlen,” he growled, striding across the room. “Guildmaster Vincin!” he called as he walked.
    The man looked up at their approach, and moved away from his fellows to greet them. He bowed to Ragen, but it was a bow of respect, not deference. Vincin had an oily black goatee, and hair slicked straight back. Rings glittered on his chubby fingers. The symbol on his breast was a keyward, a ward that served as foundation to all the other wards in a web.
    “What can I do for you, Ragen?” the guildmaster asked.
    “This boy, Arlen, is from Tibbet’s Brook,” Ragen said, gesturing to Arlen. “An orphan from a coreling attack, he has no family in Miln, but he wishes to apprentice as a Messenger.”
    “That’s all well, Ragen, but what’s it to do with me?” Vincin asked, never more than glancing Arlen’s way.
    “Malcum won’t take him unless he’s registered to ward,” Ragen said.
    “Well, that is a problem,” Vincin agreed.
    “The boy can already ward,” Ragen said. “If you could see your way to …”
    Vincin was already shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Ragen, but you’re not about to convince me that some backwater bumpkin can ward well enough for me to register him.”
    “The boy’s wards cut the arm off a rock demon,” Ragen said.
    Vincin laughed. “Unless you have the arm with you, Ragen, you can save that tale for the Jongleurs.”
    “Could you find him an apprenticeship, then?” the Messenger asked.
    “Can he pay the apprenticeship fee?” Vincin asked.
    “He’s an orphan off the road,” Ragen protested.
    “Perhaps I can find a Warder to take him on as a Servant,” the guildmaster offered.
    Ragen scowled. “Thanks all the same,” he said, ushering Arlen away.
    They hurried back to Ragen’s manse, the sun fast setting. Arlen watched as the busy streets of Miln emptied, people carefully checking wards and barring their doors. Even with cobbled streets and thick, warded walls, everyone still locked themselves up at night.
    “I can’t believe you talked to the duke like that,” Arlen said as they went.
    Ragen chuckled. “First rule of being a Messenger, Arlen,” he said. “Merchants and Royals may pay your fee, but they’ll walkall over you, if you let them. You need to act like a king in their presence, and never forget who it is risking their life.”
    “It worked with Euchor,” Arlen agreed.
    Ragen scowled at the name. “Selfish pig,” he spat. “He doesn’t care about anything but his own