The Demon Cycle Series Books 1 and 2. Peter V. Brett

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 maintained the 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 offence 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 favour, 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 arm’s length. Rojer pointed immediately. Geral always kept the sweets in the same place.

      The big Messenger laughed, retrieving a Rizonan sugar wrapped in a twist of corn husk. Rojer squealed and plopped down on the grass to unwrap it.

      ‘What brings you to Riverbridge this time?’ Jessum asked the Messenger.

      The Jongleur stepped forward, sweeping his cloak back in a flourish. He was tall, with long hair sun-bleached to gold and a brown beard. His jaw was perfectly squared, and his skin sun-bronzed. Over his motley he wore a fine tabard emblazoned with a cluster of green leaves on a field of brown.

      ‘Arrick Sweetsong,’ he introduced himself, ‘Master Jongleur and herald to His Grace, Duke Rhinebeck III, Guardian of the Forest Fortress, Wearer of the Wooden Crown, and Lord of all Angiers. I come to inspect the town before His Grace’s arrival next week.’

      ‘The Duke’s herald is a Jongleur?’ Piter asked Geral, raising an eyebrow.

      ‘None better for the hamlets,’ Geral replied with a wink. ‘Folks are less likely to string a man up for telling them taxes are raised when he’s juggling for their kids.’

      Arrick scowled at him, but Geral only laughed.

      ‘Be a good man and fetch the innkeep to come for our horses,’ Arrick told Jessum.

      ‘I’m the innkeep,’ Rojer’s father said, holding out his hand. ‘Jessum Inn. That’s my boy, Rojer.’ He nodded at Rojer.

      Arrick ignored the hand and the boy, producing a silver moon as if from thin air and flicking it his way. Jessum caught the coin, looking at it curiously.

      ‘The horses,’ Arrick said pointedly. Jessum frowned, but he pocketed the coin and moved for the animals. Geral took his own reins and waved him away.

      ‘I still need my wards looked at, Piter,’ Jessum said. ‘You’ll be sorry if I have to send Kally to shriek at you about it.’

      ‘It looks like the bridge still needs a lot of work before His Grace arrives,’ Arrick noted. Piter stood a bit straighter at that and gave Jessum a sour look.

      ‘Do you wish to sleep behind peeling wards tonight, Master Jongleur?’ Jessum asked. Arrick’s bronzed skin paled at that.

      ‘I’ll take a look at them, if you want,’ Geral said. ‘I can patch them if they’re not too bad, and I’ll fetch Piter myself if they are.’ He stomped his spear and gave the Warder a hard stare. Piter’s eyes widened, and he nodded his understanding.

      Geral picked Rojer up and sat him on top of his huge destrier. ‘Hold tight, boy,’ he said, ‘we’re going for a ride!’ Rojer laughed and pulled the destrier’s mane as Geral and his father led the horses to the inn. Arrick strode ahead of them like a man followed by servants.

      Kally was waiting at the door. ‘Geral!’ she called. ‘What a pleasant surprise!’

      ‘And who is this?’ Arrick asked, his hands flicking quickly to smooth his hair and clothes.

      ‘This is Kally,’ Jessum said, adding “my wife” when the twinkle in Arrick’s eye did not diminish.

      Arrick pretended not to hear and strode up to her, throwing his multicoloured cloak back as he made a leg.

      ‘A pleasure, madam,’ he said, kissing her hand. ‘I am Arrick Sweetsong, Master Jongleur and herald to Duke Rhinebeck III, Guardian of the Forest Fortress, Wearer of the Wooden Crown, and Lord of all Angiers. His Grace will be pleased to see such beauty when he visits your fine inn.’

      Kally covered her mouth, her pale cheeks colouring to match her red hair. She made a clumsy curtsey in return.

      ‘You and Geral must be tired,’ she said. ‘Come