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

      It was well past high sun when they finally reached the city. Ragen pointed out a column of smoke further up the mountain, miles above the city.

      ‘The Duke’s Mines,’ he said. ‘It’s a village in itself, larger than your Tibbet’s Brook. They’re not self-sufficient, but that’s how the Duke likes it. Caravans come and go most every week. Food goes up, and salt, metal, and coal come down.’

      A lower wall branched out from the main city, running in a broad swath around the valley. Arlen could make out wardposts and the top of neat green rows. ‘The great gardens and the Duke’s orchard,’ Ragen noted.

      The gate was open wide as workers came and went, and the guards waved as they approached. They were tall, like Ragen, and wore dented metal helms and old boiled leather over thick woollens. Both carried spears, but they held them more like showpieces than weapons.

      ‘Ay, Messenger!’ one cried. ‘Welcome back!’

      ‘Gaims. Woron.’ Ragen nodded at them.

      ‘Duke expected you days ago,’ Gaims said. ‘We were worried when you didn’t arrive.’

      ‘Thought the demons got me?’ Ragen laughed. ‘Not a chance! There was a coreling attack in the hamlet I visited on the way back from Angiers. We stayed on a bit to help out.’

      ‘Picked up a stray while you were there?’ Woron asked with a grin. ‘A little gift for your wife while she waits for you to make her a Mother?’

      Ragen scowled, and the guard drew back. ‘I meant no offence,’ he said quickly.

      ‘Then I suggest you avoid saying things that tend to offend, servant,’ Ragen replied tightly. Woron paled, and nodded quickly.

      ‘I found him out on the road, actually,’ Ragen said, ruffling Arlen’s hair and grinning as if nothing tense had just passed.

      Arlen liked that about Ragen. He was quick to laugh, and held no grudges, but he demanded respect, and let you know where you stood. Arlen wanted to be like that one day.

      ‘On the road?’ Gaims asked in disbelief.

      ‘Days from anywhere!’ Ragen cried. ‘The boy can ward better than some Messengers I know.’ Arlen swelled with pride at the compliment.

      ‘And you, Jongleur?’ Woron asked Keerin. ‘Like your first taste of the naked night?’

      Keerin scowled, and the guards laughed. ‘That good, eh?’ Woron asked.

      ‘Light’s wasting,’ Ragen said. ‘Send word to Mother Jone that we’ll come to the palace after I deliver the rice and stop home for a bath and a decent meal.’ The men saluted and let them pass into the city.

      Despite his initial disappointment, the grandeur of Miln soon overwhelmed Arlen. Buildings soared into the air, dwarfing anything he had ever seen before, and cobbles covered the streets instead of hard-packed soil. Corelings couldn’t rise through worked stone, but Arlen couldn’t imagine the effort needed to cut and fit hundreds of thousands of stones.

      In Tibbet’s Brook, almost every structure was wood, with foundations of piled stone and roofs of thatch with plates for wards. Here, almost everything was cut stone, and reeked of age. Despite the warded outer walls, every building was warded individually, some in fantastic works of art, and others in simple functionality.

      The air in the city was rank, thick with the stench of garbage, dung fires, and sweat. Arlen tried holding his breath, but soon gave up and settled for breathing through his mouth. Keerin, on the other hand, seemed to breathe comfortably for the first time.

      Ragen led the way to a marketplace where Arlen saw more people than he had in his entire life. Hundreds of Rusco Hogs called to him from all sides: ‘Buy this!’ ‘Try that!’ ‘A special price, just for you!’ They were all tall; giants compared to the folk of the Brook.

      They passed carts of fruits and vegetables the likes of which Arlen had never seen, and so many sellers of clothes that he thought it must be all the Milnese thought about. There were paintings and carvings, too, so intricate he wondered how anyone had time to make them.

      Ragen brought them to a merchant on the far end of the market who bore the symbol of a shield on his tent. ‘The Duke’s man,’ Ragen advised as they pulled up to the cart.

      ‘Ragen!’ the merchant called. ‘What do you have for me today?’

      ‘Marsh rice,’ Ragen said. ‘Taxes from the Brook to pay for the Duke’s salt.’

      ‘Been to see Rusco Hog?’ the merchant said more than asked. ‘That crook still robbing the townies blind?’

      ‘You know Hog?’ Ragen asked.

      The merchant laughed. ‘I testified before the Mothers’ Council ten years ago to have his merchant licence pulled, after he tried to pass on a shipment of grain thick with rats,’ he said. ‘He left town soon after, and resurfaced at the ends of the world. Heard the same thing happened in Angiers, which is why he was in Miln to begin with.’

      ‘Good thing we checked the rice,’ Ragen muttered.

      They haggled for some time over the going rates for rice and salt. Finally, the merchant gave in, admitting that Ragen had gotten the better of Hog. He gave the Messenger a jingling pouch of coins to make up the difference.

      ‘Can Arlen drive the cart from here?’ Keerin asked. Ragen glanced at him and nodded. He tossed a purse of coins to Keerin, who caught it deftly and hopped off the cart.

      Ragen shook his head as Keerin disappeared into the crowd. ‘Not the worst Jongleur,’ he said, ‘but he doesn’t have the stones for the road.’ He remounted, and led Arlen through the busy streets. Arlen felt suffocated by the press as they moved down a particularly crowded street.

      He noticed some people dressed only in tattered rags despite the chill mountain air.

      ‘What are they doing?’ Arlen asked, watching them hold empty cups out to passers-by.

      ‘Begging,’ Ragen said. ‘Not everyone in Miln can afford to buy food.’

      ‘Can’t we just give them some of ours?’ Arlen asked.

      Ragen sighed. ‘It’s not that simple, Arlen,’ he said. ‘The soil here isn’t fertile enough to feed even half the people. We need grain from Fort Rizon, fish from Lakton, fruit and livestock from Angiers. The other cities don’t just give all that away. It goes to those who work a trade and earn the money to pay for it, the Merchants. Merchants hire Servants to do for them, and feed, clothe and house them out of their own purse.’

      He gestured at a man wrapped in rough, filthy cloth holding out a cracked wooden bowl to passers-by, who moved to avoid him, refusing eye contact. ‘So unless you’re a Royal or a Holy Man, if you don’t work, you end up like that.’

      Arlen nodded as if he understood, but he didn’t really. People ran out of credits at the general store in Tibbet’s Brook all the time, but even Hog didn’t let them starve.

      They came to a house, and Ragen signalled Arlen to stop the cart. It was not a large house compared to many Arlen had seen in Miln, but it was still impressive by Tibbet’s Brook standards, made entirely of stone and standing two full storeys.

      ‘Is this where you live?’ Arlen asked.

      Ragen shook his head. He dismounted and went to the door, knocking sharply. A moment later, it was answered by a young woman with long brown hair woven into a tight braid. She was tall and sturdy, like everyone in Miln, and wore a high-necked dress that fell to her ankles and was tight across her bosom. Arlen couldn’t tell if she was pretty. He was about to decide that she was not when she smiled, and her whole face changed.

      ‘Ragen!’