“There is news from the Brook, Your Grace,” Ragen began.

“The Brook?” Euchor burst out. “What do I care about the Brook? What word from Rhinebeck?”

“They’ve had a rough winter without the salt,” Ragen went on as if the duke had not spoken. “And there was an attack …”

“Night, Ragen!” Euchor barked. “Rhinebeck’s answer could affect all Miln for years to come, so spare me birth lists and harvest counts of some miserable little backwater!”

Arlen gasped and drew protectively behind Ragen, who gripped his arm reassuringly.

Euchor pressed the attack. “Did they discover gold in Tibbet’s Brook?” he demanded.

“No, my lord,” Ragen replied, “but …”

“Did Sunny Pasture open a coal mine?” Euchor cut him off.

“No, my lord.”

“Did they rediscover the lost combat wards?”

Ragen shook his head. “Of course not …”

“Did you even haul back enough rice to bring me profit to cover the cost of your services to go there and back?” Euchor asked.

“No.” Ragen scowled.

“Good,” Euchor said, rubbing his hands as if to remove the dust from them. “Then we need not concern ourselves with Tibbet’s Brook for another year and a half.”

“A year and a half is too long,” Ragen dared to persist. “The folk need …”

“Go for free, then,” the duke cut him off, “so I can afford it.”

When Ragen didn’t immediately answer, Euchor smiled widely, knowing he had won the exchange. “What word from Angiers?” he demanded.

“I have a letter from Duke Rhinebeck,” Ragen sighed, reaching into his coat. He drew forth a slim tube, sealed with wax, but the duke waved at him impatiently.

“Just tell me, Ragen! Yes or no?”

Ragen’s eyes narrowed. “No, my lord,” he said. “His answer is no. The last two shipments were lost, along with all but a handful of the men. Duke Rhinebeck cannot afford to send another. His men can only log so fast, and he needs the timber more than he needs salt.”

The duke’s face reddened, and Arlen thought it might burst. “Damn it, Ragen!” he shouted, slamming down his fist. “I need that wood!”

“His Grace has decided that he needs it more for the rebuilding of Riverbridge,” Ragen said calmly, “on the south side of the Dividing River.”

Duke Euchor hissed, and his eyes took on a murderous gleam.

“This is the work of Rhinebeck’s first minister,” Jone advised. “Janson’s been trying to get Rhinebeck a cut of the bridge tolls for years.”

“And why settle for a cut when you can have all?” Euchor agreed. “What did you say I would do when you gave me this news?”

Ragen shrugged. “It’s not the place of a Messenger to conjecture. What would you have had me say?”

“That people in wooden fortresses shouldn’t set fires in other men’s yards,” Euchor growled. “I don’t need to remind you, Ragen, how important that wood is to Miln. Our supply of coal dwindles, and without fuel, all the ore in the mines is useless, and half the city will freeze! I’ll torch his new Riverbridge myself before it comes to that!”

Ragen bowed in acknowledgment of the fact. “Duke Rhinebeck knows this,” he said. “He empowered me to make a counteroffer.”

“And that is?” Euchor asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Materials to rebuild Riverbridge, and half the tolls,” Jone guessed before Ragen could open his mouth. She squinted at the Messenger. “And Riverbridge stays on the Angierian side of the Dividing.”

Ragen nodded.

“Night!” Euchor swore. “Creator, Ragen, whose side are you on?”

“I am a Messenger,” Ragen replied proudly. “I take no sides, I simply report what I have been told.”

Duke Euchor surged to his feet. “Then tell me what in the dark of night I pay you for!” he demanded.

Ragen tilted his head. “Would you prefer to go in person, Your Grace?” he asked mildly.

The duke paled at that, and did not reply. Arlen could feel the power of Ragen’s simple comment. If possible, his desire to become a Messenger strengthened further.

The duke finally nodded in resignation. “I will think on this,” he said at last. “The hour grows late. You are dismissed.”

“There is one more thing, my lord,” Ragen added, beckoning Arlen to come forward, but Jone signaled the guards to open the doors, and the greater petitioners swarmed back into the room. The duke’s attention was already turned away from the Messenger.

Ragen intercepted Jone as she left Euchor’s side. “Mother,” he said, “about the boy …”

“I’m very busy, Messenger,” Jone sniffed. “Perhaps you should ‘choose’ to bring him some time when I am less so.” She swept away from them with her head thrown back.

One of the Merchants approached them. He was a bearlike man with only one eye, his other socket a gnarl of scarred flesh. On his breast was a symbol, a man on horseback with spear and satchel. “It’s good to see you safe, Ragen,” the man said. “You’ll be by the guild in the morning to give your report?”

“Guildmaster Malcum,” Ragen said, bowing. “I’m glad to see you. I encountered this boy, Arlen, on the road …”

“Between cities?” the guildmaster asked in surprise. “You should know better, boy!”

“Several days between cities,” Ragen clarified. “The boy wards better than many Messengers.” Malcum arched his one eyebrow at that.

“He wants to be a Messenger,” Ragen pressed.

“You could not ask for a more honorable career,” Malcum told Arlen.

“He has no one in Miln,” Ragen said. “I thought he might apprentice with the guild …”

“Now, Ragen,” Malcum said, “you know as well as any that we only apprentice registered Warders. Try Guildmaster Vincin.”

“The boy can already ward,” Ragen argued, though his tone was more respectful than it had been with Duke Euchor. Guildmaster Malcum was even larger than Ragen, and didn’t look like he could be intimidated by talk of nights outside.

“Then he shouldn’t have any trouble getting the Warders’ Guild to register him,” Malcum said, turning away. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he called over his shoulder.

Ragen looked around, spotting another man in the cluster of Merchants. “Lift your feet, Arlen,” he growled, striding across the room. “Guildmaster Vincin!” he called as he walked.

The man looked up at their approach, and moved away from his fellows to greet them. He bowed to Ragen, but it was a bow of respect, not deference. Vincin had an oily black goatee, and hair slicked straight back. Rings glittered on his chubby fingers. The symbol on his breast was a keyward, a ward that served as foundation to all the other wards in a web.

“What can I do for you, Ragen?” the guildmaster asked.

“This boy, Arlen, is from Tibbet’s Brook,” Ragen said, gesturing to Arlen. “An orphan from a coreling attack, he has no family in Miln, but he wishes to apprentice as a Messenger.”