The Painted Man. Peter Brett V.

he was Speaker for Soggy Marsh and Keven’s father. Arlen didn’t know him, so he was a Marsh or a Watch. They tended to keep to themselves. ‘They prob’ly saw the smoke. Keven’s telling ’em what’s happened and where everyone is.’

      â€˜A Messenger in spring?’ Arlen asked. ‘I thought they come in the fall after harvest. We only finished planting this past moon!’

      â€˜Messenger never came last fall,’ Coran said, spitting foamy brown juice from the root he was chewing through the gap of his missing teeth. ‘We been worried sumpin’ happened. Thought we might not have a Messenger bring salt till next fall. Or maybe that the corelings got the Free Cities and we’s cut off.’

      â€˜The corelings could never get the Free Cities,’ Arlen said.

      â€˜Arlen, shush your mouth!’ Silvy hissed. ‘He’s your elder!’

      â€˜Let the boy speak,’ Coran said. ‘Ever bin to a free city, boy?’ he asked Arlen.

      â€˜No,’ Arlen admitted.

      â€˜Ever know anyone who had?’

      â€˜No,’ Arlen said again.

      â€˜So what makes you such an expert?’ Coran asked. ‘Ent no one been to one ’cept the Messengers. They’re the only ones what brave the night to go so far. Who’s to say the Free Cities ent just places like the Brook? If the corelings can get us, they can get them, too.’

      â€˜Old Hog is from the Free Cities,’ Arlen said. Rusco Hog was the richest man in the Brook. He ran the general store, which was the crux of all commerce in Tibbet’s Brook.

      â€˜Ay,’ Coran said, ‘an’ old Hog told me years ago that one trip was enough for him. He meant to go back after a few years, but said it wasn’t worth the risk. So you ask him if the Free Cities are any safer than anywhere else.’

      Arlen didn’t want to believe it. There had to be safe places in the world. But again the image of himself being thrown into the cellar flashed across his mind, and he knew that nowhere was truly safe at night.

      The Messenger arrived an hour later. He was a tall man in his early thirties, with cropped brown hair and a short, thick beard. Draped about his broad shoulders was a shirt of metal links, and he wore a long dark cloak with thick leather breeches and boots. His mare was a sleek brown courser. Strapped to the horse’s saddle was a harness holding a number of different spears. His face was grim as he approached, but his shoulders were high and proud. He scanned the crowd and spotted the Speaker easily as she stood giving orders. He turned his horse towards her.

      Riding a few paces behind on a heavily laden cart pulled by a pair of dark brown mollies was the Jongleur. His clothes were a brightly coloured patchwork, and he had a lute resting on the bench next to him. His hair was a colour Arlen had never seen before, like a pale carrot, and his skin was so fair it seemed the sun had never touched it. His shoulders slumped, and he looked thoroughly exhausted.

      There was always a Jongleur with the annual Messenger. To the children, and some of the adults, the Jongleur was the more important of the two. For as long as Arlen could remember, it had been the same man, grey-haired but spry and full of cheer. This new one was younger, and he seemed sullen. Children ran to him immediately, and the young Jongleur perked up, the frustration melting from his face so quickly Arlen began to doubt it was ever there. In an instant, the Jongleur was off the cart and spinning his coloured balls into the air as the children cheered.

      Others, Arlen among them, forgot their work, drifting towards the newcomers. Selia whirled on them, having none of it. ‘The day is no longer because the Messenger’s come!’ she barked. ‘Back to your work!’

      There were grumbles, but everyone went back to work. ‘Not you, Arlen,’ Selia said, ‘come here.’ Arlen pulled his eyes from the Jongleur and went to her as the Messenger arrived.

      â€˜Selia Barren?’ the Messenger asked.

      â€˜Just Selia will do,’ Selia replied primly. The Messenger’s eyes widened, and he blushed, the tops of his pale cheeks turning a deep red above his beard. He leaped down from his horse and bowed low.

      â€˜Apologies,’ he said. ‘I did not think. Graig, your usual Messenger, told me that’s what you were called.’

      â€˜It’s pleasing to know what Graig thinks of me after all these years,’ Selia said, sounding not at all pleased.

      â€˜Thought,’ the Messenger corrected. ‘He’s dead, ma’am.’

      â€˜Dead?’ Selia asked, looking suddenly sad. ‘Was it …?’

      The Messenger shook his head. ‘It was a chill took him, not corelings. I’m Ragen, your Messenger this year, as a favour to his widow. The guild will select a new Messenger for you starting next fall.’

      â€˜A year and a half again before the next Messenger?’ Selia asked, sounding like she was readying a scolding. ‘We barely made it through this past winter without the fall salt,’ she said. ‘I know you take it for granted in Miln, but half our meat and fish spoiled for lack of proper curing. And what of our letters?’

      â€˜Sorry, ma’am,’ Ragen said. ‘Your towns are well off the common roads, and paying a Messenger to commit for a month and more of travel each year is costly. The Messengers’ guild is shorthanded, what with Graig catching that chill.’ He chuckled and shook his head, but noticed Selia’s visage darken in response.

      â€˜No offence meant, ma’am,’ Ragen said. ‘He was my friend as well. It’s just … it’s not many of us Messengers get to go with a roof above, a bed below, and a young wife at our side. The night usually gets us before that, you see?’

      â€˜I do,’ Selia said. ‘Do you have a wife, Ragen?’ she asked.

      â€˜Ay,’ the Messenger said, ‘though to her pleasure and my pain, I see my mare more than my bride.’ He laughed, confusing Arlen, who didn’t think having a wife not miss you was funny.

      Selia didn’t seem to notice. ‘What if you couldn’t see her at all?’ she asked. ‘What if all you had were letters once a year to connect you to her? How would you feel to hear your letters would be delayed half a year? There are some in this town with kin in the Free Cities. Left with one Messenger or another, some as much as two generations gone. Those people ent going to come home, Ragen. Letters are all we have of them, and they of us.’

      â€˜I am in full agreement with you, ma’am,’ Ragen said, ‘but the decision is not mine to make. The Duke …’

      â€˜But you will speak to the Duke upon your return, yes?’ Selia asked.

      â€˜I will,’ he said.

      â€˜Shall I write the message down for you?’ Selia asked.

      Ragen smiled. ‘I think I can remember it, ma’am.’

      â€˜See that you do.’

      Ragen bowed again, still lower. ‘Apologies, for coming to call on such a dark day,’ he said, his eyes flicking to the funeral pyre.

      â€˜We cannot tell the rain when to come, nor the wind, nor the cold,’ Selia said. ‘Not the corelings, either. So life must go on despite these things.’

      â€˜Life goes on,’ Ragen agreed, ‘but if there’s anything I or my Jongleur can do to help; I’ve a strong back and I’ve treated coreling wounds many times.’

      â€˜Your