‘I help sweep!’ Rojer proclaimed loudly.
‘That’s right,’ his mother agreed, ‘and your father’s making a mess.’
‘You want to run out of wood in the night with the Duke and his entourage upstairs?’ Jessum asked.
‘His Grace won’t be here for a week at least,’ his mother replied.
‘Best do the work now while the inn’s quiet, Kally,’ Jessum said. ‘No telling how many courtiers the Duke will bring, running us to and fro to like little Riverbridge was Angiers itself.’
‘If you want to do something useful,’ Kally said, ‘the wards outside are starting to peel.’
Jessum nodded. ‘I saw,’ he said. ‘The wood warped in that last cold snap.’
‘Master Piter was supposed to redraw them a week ago,’ Kally said.
‘Spoke to him yesterday,’ Jessum said. ‘He’s putting everyone off to work on the bridge, but he says they’ll be ready before the Duke comes.’
‘It’s not the Duke I’m worried about,’ Kally said. ‘Piter’s only concern may be impressing Rhinebeck in hopes of a royal commission, but I have simpler concerns, like not having my family cored in the night.’
‘All right, all right,’ Jessum said, holding up his hands. ‘I’ll go talk to him again.’
‘You’d think Piter would know better,’ Kally went on. ‘Rhinebeck ent even our duke.’
‘He’s the only one close enough to get help to us if we need it quick,’ Jessum said. ‘Euchor doesn’t care for Riverbridge, long as Messengers get through and taxes come on time.’
‘See the light,’ Kally said. ‘If Rhinebeck’s coming, it’s because he’s sniffing for taxes, too. We’ll be paying from both ends afore Rojer sees another summer.’
‘What would you have us do?’ Jessum asked. ‘Anger a day away for the sake of the one two weeks to the north?’
‘I didn’t say we should spit in his eye,’ Kally said. ‘I just don’t see why impressing him comes before warding our own homes.’
‘I said I’d go,’ Jessum said.
‘So go,’ Kally said. ‘It’s past noon already. And take Rojer with you. Maybe that will remind you what’s really important.’
Jessum swallowed his scowl and squatted before his son. ‘Want to go see the bridge, Rojer?’ he asked.
‘Fishing?’ Rojer asked. He loved to fish off the side of the bridge with his father.
Jessum laughed, sweeping Rojer into his arms. ‘Not today,’ he said. ‘Your mum wants us to have a word with Piter.’
He sat Rojer up on his shoulders. ‘Now hold on tight,’ he said, and Rojer held 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,