LITMIR.BIZ

      That first year in Miln, his twelfth, passed quickly for Arlen as he grew into his role as an apprentice Warder. Cob’s first task had been to teach him to read. Arlen knew wards never before seen in Miln, and Cob wanted them committed to paper as soon as possible.

      Arlen took to reading voraciously, wondering how he had ever gotten along without it. He disappeared into books for hours at a time, his lips moving slightly at first, but soon he was turning pages rapidly, his eyes darting across the page.

      Cob had no cause to complain; Arlen worked harder than any apprentice he had ever known, staying up late in the night etching wards. Cob would often go to his bed thinking of the full day’s work to come, only to find it completed when the sun’s first light flooded the shop.

      After learning his letters, Arlen was put to work cataloguing his personal repertoire of wards, complete with descriptions, into a book the master purchased for him. Paper was expensive in the sparsely wooded lands of Miln, and a whole book was something few commoners ever saw, but Cob scoffed at the price.

      ‘Even the worst grimoire’s worth a hundred times the paper it’s written on,’ he said.

      ‘Grimoire?’ Arlen asked.

      ‘A book of wards,’ Cob said. ‘Every Warder has theirs, and they guard their secrets carefully.’ Arlen treasured the valuable gift, filling its pages with a slow and steady hand.

      When Arlen had finished plumbing his memory, Cob studied the book in shock. ‘Creator, boy, do you have any idea what this book is worth?’ he demanded.

      Arlen looked up from the ward he was chiselling into a stone post, and shrugged. ‘Any greybeard in Tibbet’s Brook could teach you those wards,’ he said.

      ‘That may be,’ Cob replied, ‘but what’s common in Tibbet’s Brook is buried treasure in Miln. This ward here,’ he pointed to a page. ‘Can it truly turn firespit into a cool breeze?’

      Arlen laughed. ‘My mam used to love that one,’ he said. ‘She wished the flame demons could come right up to the windows on hot summer nights to cool the house with their breath.’

      ‘Amazing,’ Cob said, shaking his head. ‘I want you to copy this a few more times, Arlen. It’s going to make you a very rich man.’

      ‘How do you mean?’ Arlen asked.

      ‘People would pay a fortune for a copy of this,’ Cob said. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t even sell at all. We could be the most sought-after Warders in the city if we kept them secret.’

      Arlen frowned. ‘It’s not right to keep them secret,’ he said. ‘My da always said wards are for everyone.’

      ‘Every Warder has his secrets, Arlen,’ Cob said. ‘This is how we make our living.’

      ‘We make our living etching wardposts and painting doorjambs,’ Arlen disagreed, ‘not hoarding secrets that can save lives. Should we deny succour to those too poor to pay?’

      ‘Of course not,’ Cob said, ‘but this is different.’

      ‘How?’ Arlen asked. ‘We didn’t have Warders in Tibbet’s Brook. We all warded our own homes, and those who were better at it helped those who were worse without asking anything in return. Why should we? It’s not us against each other, it’s us against the demons!’

      ‘Fort Miln isn’t like Tibbet’s Brook, boy,’ Cob scowled. ‘Here, things cost money. If you don’t have any money, you become a Beggar. I have a skill, like any baker or stonemason. Why shouldn’t I charge for it?’

      Arlen sat quietly for a time. ‘Cob, why ent you rich?’ he asked at last.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Like Ragen,’ Arlen clarified. ‘You said you used to be a Messenger for the Duke. Why don’t you live in a manse and have servants do everything for you? Why do you do this at all?’

      Cob blew out a long breath. ‘Money is a fickle thing, Arlen,’ he said. ‘One moment you can have more than you know what to do with, and the next … you can find yourself begging food on the street.’

      Arlen thought of the Beggars he saw on his first day in Miln. He had seen many more since, stealing dung to burn for warmth, sleeping in public warded shelters, begging for food.

      ‘What happened to your money, Cob?’ he asked.

      ‘I met a man who said he could build a road,’ Cob said. ‘A warded road, stretching from here to Angiers.’ Arlen moved closer and sat on a stool, his attention rapt.

      ‘They’ve tried to build roads before,’ Cob went on, ‘to the Duke’s Mines in the mountains, or to Harden’s Grove to the south. Short distances, less than a full day, but enough to make a fortune for the builder. They always failed. If there’s a hole in a net, no matter how small, corelings will find it eventually. And once they’re in …’ He shook his head. ‘I told the man this, but he was adamant. He had a plan. It would work. All he needed was money.’

      Cob looked at Arlen. ‘Every city is short of something,’ he said, ‘and has too much of something else. Miln has metal and stone, but no wood. Angiers, the reverse. Both are short of crops and livestock, while Rizon has more than they need, but no good lumber or metal for tools. Lakton has fish in abundance, but little else.

      ‘I know you must think me a fool,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘for considering something everyone from the Duke on down had dismissed as impossible, but the idea stuck with me. I kept thinking, What if he could? Isn’t that worth any risk?’

      ‘I don’t think you’re a fool,’ Arlen said.

      ‘Which is why I keep most of your pay in trust,’ Cob chuckled. ‘You’d give it away, same as I did.’

      ‘What happened to the road?’ Arlen pressed.

      ‘Corelings happened,’ Cob said. ‘They slaughtered the man and all the workers I hired him, burned the wardposts and plans … they destroyed it all. I had invested everything in that road, Arlen. Even letting my servants go wasn’t enough to pay my debts. I made barely enough money selling my manse to clear a loan to buy this shop, and I’ve been here ever since.’

      They sat for a time,

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