The Warded Man (Demon Cycle, #1)(66)

“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 walk all 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 pockets.”

“It’s okay,” Arlen said. “The Brook survived without salt last fall. They can do it again.”

“Perhaps,” Ragen conceded, “but they shouldn’t have to. And you! A good duke would have asked why I brought a boy with me into his chamber. A good duke would have made you a ward of the throne, so you didn’t wind up begging on the street. And Malcum was no better! Would it have cored him to test your skill? And Vincin! If you’d had the ripping fee, that greedy bastard would have had a master to apprentice you by sunset! Servant, he says!”

“Ent an apprentice a Servant?” Arlen asked.

“Not in the slightest,” Ragen said. “Apprentices are Merchant class. They master a trade and then go into business for themselves, or with another master. Servants will never be anything but, unless they marry up, and I’ll be corespawned before I let them turn you into one.”

He lapsed into silence, and Arlen, though he was still confused, thought it best not to press him further.

It was full dark not long after they crossed Ragen’s wards, and Margrit showed Arlen to a guest room that was half the size of Jeph’s entire house. At the center was a bed so high that Arlen had to hop to get in, and having never slept on anything but the ground or a hard straw pallet, he was shocked when he sank into the soft mattress.

He drifted off to slumber quickly, but awoke soon after at the sound of raised voices. He slipped from the bed and left his room, following the sound. The halls of the great manse were empty, the servants having retired for the night. Arlen went to the top of the stairs, the voices becoming clearer. It was Ragen and Elissa.

“… taking him in, and that’s final,” he heard Elissa say. “Messaging’s no job for a boy anyway!”

“It’s what he wants,” Ragen insisted.

Elissa snorted. “Pawning Arlen off on someone else won’t alleviate your guilt over bringing him to Miln when you should have taken him home.”

“Demon dung,” Ragen snapped. “You just want someone to mother day and night.”