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

a serving woman in a dress of the same blue as the men’s jackets entered and bowed to Elissa. ‘Master Ragen awaits you upstairs,’ she said.

      ‘Thank you, Mother,’ Elissa replied. Her face took on a strange cast for a moment, as she absently ran her fingers over her stomach. Then she smiled and looked at Arlen. ‘Take our guest to the bath,’ she ordered, ‘and don’t let him up for air until you can tell what colour his skin is.’ She laughed and swept out of the room.

      Arlen, used to standing in a trough and dumping cold water over himself, was out of sorts at the sight of Ragen’s deep stone tub. He waited as the serving woman, Margrit, poured a kettle of boiling water in to take the chill from his soak. She was tall, like everyone in Miln, with kind eyes and honey-coloured hair showing just a hint of grey peeking from underneath her bonnet. She turned her back while Arlen undressed and got into the tub. She gasped as she saw the stitched wounds on his back, and quickly moved to inspect them.

      ‘Ow!’ Arlen shouted as she pinched the uppermost wound.

      ‘Don’t be such a baby,’ she scolded, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together and sniffing at them. Arlen bit down as she repeated the process down his back. ‘You’re luckier than you know,’ she said at last. ‘When Ragen told me you were hurt, I thought it must be just a scratch, but this …’ She tsked at him. ‘Didn’t your mother teach you not to be outside at night?’

      Arlen’s retort died on a sniffle. He bit his lip, determined not to cry. Margrit noticed, and immediately softened her tone. ‘These are healing well,’ she said of his wounds. She took a cake of soap and began to gently wash them. Arlen gritted his teeth. ‘When you’re done in the bath, I’ll prepare a poultice and fresh bandages for you.’

      Arlen nodded. ‘Are you Elissa’s mother?’ he asked.

      The woman laughed. ‘Creator, boy, whatever gave you that idea?’

      ‘She called you mother,’ Arlen said.

      ‘Because I am,’ Margrit said proudly. ‘Two sons and three daughters, one of them soon to be a Mother herself.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Poor Elissa, all her wealth, and still a Daughter, and her on the dark side of thirty! It breaks the heart.’

      ‘Is being a mam so important?’ Arlen asked.

      The woman regarded him as if he had asked if air were important. ‘What could be more important than motherhood?’ she asked. ‘It’s every woman’s duty to produce children to keep the city strong. That’s why Mothers get the best rations and first pick of the morning market. It’s why all of the Duke’s councillors are Mothers. Men are good for breaking and building, but politics and papers are best left to women who’ve been to the Mothers’ School. Why, it’s Mothers that vote to choose a new duke when the old one passes!’

      ‘Then why ent Elissa one?’ Arlen asked.

      ‘It’s not for lack of trying,’ Margrit admitted. ‘I’ll wager she’s at it right now. Six weeks on the road will make any man a bull, and I brewed fertility tea and left it on her nightstand. Maybe it will help, though any fool knows the best time to make a baby is just before dawn.’

      ‘Then why haven’t they made one?’ Arlen asked. He knew making babies had something to do with the games Renna and Beni had wanted to play, but he was still vague on the process.

      ‘Only the Creator knows,’ Margrit said. ‘Elissa might be barren, or it might be Ragen, though that would be a shame. There’s a shortage of good men like him. Miln needs his sons.’

      She sighed. ‘Elissa’s lucky he hasn’t left her, or gotten a child on one of the servant girls. Creator knows, they’re willing.’

      ‘He would leave his wife?’ Arlen was aghast.

      ‘Don’t look so surprised, boy,’ Margit said. ‘Men need heirs, and they’ll get them any way they can. Duke Euchor is on his third wife, and still only daughters to show for it!’

      She shook her head. ‘Not Ragen, though. They fight like corelings sometimes, but he loves Elissa like the sun itself. He’d never leave. Nor Elissa, despite what she’s given up.’

      ‘Given up?’ Arlen asked.

      ‘She was a Noble, you know,’ Margrit said. ‘Her mother is on the Duke’s Council. Elissa could have served the Duke, too, if she’d married another Noble and got with child. But she married down to be with Ragen, against her mother’s wishes. They haven’t spoken since. Elissa’s Merchant now, if well moneyed. Denied the Mothers’ School, she’ll never hold any position in the city, much less one in the Duke’s service.’

      Arlen was quiet while Margrit rinsed out his wounds and collected his clothes off the tiles. She asked as she inspected the rips and stains. ‘I’ll mend these as best I can while you soak,’ she promised, and left him to his bath. While she was gone, Arlen tried to make sense of everything she had told him, but there was too much he didn’t understand.

      Margrit reminded Arlen a little of Catrin Hog, Rusco’s daughter. ‘She’d tell you every secret in the world, if it let her hear her own voice a moment longer,’ Silvy used to say.

      The woman returned later with fresh, if ill-fitting clothes. She bandaged his wounds and helped him dress, despite his protests. He had to roll up the tunic sleeves to find his hands, and cuff his breeches to keep from tripping, but Arlen felt clean for the first time in weeks.

      He shared an early supper with Ragen and Elissa. Ragen had trimmed his beard, tied back his hair, and donned a fine white shirt with a deep blue suede jacket and breeches.

      A pig had been slaughtered on Ragen’s arrival, and the table was soon laden with pork chops, ribs, rashers of bacon, and succulent sausage. Flagons of chilled ale and clear, cold water were served. Elissa frowned when Ragen signalled a servant to pour Arlen an ale, but she said nothing. She sipped wine from a glass so delicate Arlen was afraid her slender fingers would break it. There was crusty bread, whiter than he had ever seen, and bowls of boiled turnips and potatoes, thick with butter.

      As he looked out over the food, his mouth watering, Arlen couldn’t help but remember people out in the city begging for something to eat. Still, his hunger soon overcame his guilt, and he sampled everything, filling his plate again and again.

      ‘Creator, where are you putting it all?’ Elissa asked, clapping her hands in amusement as she watched Arlen clean another plate. ‘Is there a chasm in your belly?’

      ‘Ignore her, Arlen,’ Ragen advised. ‘Women will fuss all day in the kitchen, yet fear to take more than a nibble, lest they seem indelicate. Men know better how to appreciate a meal.’

      ‘He’s right, you know,’ Elissa said with a roll of her eyes. ‘Women can hardly appreciate the subtleties of life as men do.’ Ragen started and spilled his ale, and Arlen realized that she had kicked him under the table. Arlen decided he liked her.

      After supper a page appeared, wearing a grey tabard with the Duke’s shield emblazoned on the front. He reminded Ragen of his appointment and the Messenger sighed, but assured the page they would be along directly.

      ‘Arlen is hardly dressed to meet the Duke,’ Elissa fussed. ‘One does not go before His Grace looking like a Beggar.’

      ‘There’s nothing for it, love,’ Ragen replied. ‘We have only a few hours before sunset. We can hardly have a tailor come in time.’

      Elissa refused to accept that. She stared at the boy for a long moment, then snapped her fingers, striding out of the room. She returned soon after with a blue doublet and a pair of polished leather boots.

      ‘One of our pages is near your age,’ she told Arlen as she helped him into the jacket and boots. The sleeves of the doublet were short, and the boots pinched his feet, but Lady Elissa seemed satisfied. She ran a comb through his hair and stepped back.

      ‘Good enough,’ she said with a smile.