‘She deserves a name,’ Arlen said, for the hundredth time, pointing at the steady horse.
‘Fine, fine!’ Ragen finally conceded, ruffling Arlen’s hair. ‘You can name her.’
Arlen smiled. ‘Nighteye,’ he said.
Ragen looked at the horse, and nodded. ‘It’s a good name,’ he agreed.
319 AR
The terrain grew steadily rockier as the tiny lumps on the horizon rose higher and higher. Ragen had not exaggerated when he said a hundred Boggin’s Hills could fit in just one mountain, and the range stretched as far as Arlen could see. The air grew cooler as they climbed; strong gusts of wind whipped through the hills. Arlen looked back and saw the whole world spread out before him like a map. He imagined travelling through those lands with only a spear and a Messenger bag.
When they finally caught sight of Fort Miln, Arlen couldn’t believe his eyes. Despite Ragen’s tales, he had still assumed it would be like Tibbet’s Brook, only larger. He nearly fell from the cart as the fortress city rose up before them, looming over the road.
Fort Miln was built into the base of a mountain, overlooking a broad valley. Another mountain, twin to the one Miln abutted, faced the city from across the valley. A circular wall some thirty feet high surrounded the city, though many of the buildings within thrust still even higher into the sky. The closer they got to the city, the more it spread out, the wall going for miles in each direction.
The walls were painted with the largest wards Arlen had ever seen. His eyes followed the invisible lines connecting one ward to another, forming a web that would make the wall impervious to corelings.
But despite the triumph of achievement, the walls disappointed Arlen. The ‘free’ cities weren’t really free at all. Walls that kept the corelings out also kept the people in. At least in Tibbet’s Brook the prison walls were invisible.
‘What keeps wind demons from flying over the wall?’ Arlen asked.
‘The top of the wall is set with wardposts that weave a canopy over the city,’ Ragen said.
Arlen realized he should have figured that out without Ragen’s help. He had more questions, but he kept them to himself, his sharp mind already working on probable solutions.
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,