The Warded Man

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 defense, “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