The Demon Cycle Books 1-3 and Novellas: The Painted Man, The Desert Spear, The Daylight War plus The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold and Messenger’s Legacy. Peter V. Brett

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      The Duke’s Keep was a warded fortress within the warded fortress of Miln. The outer wall was fitted stone, over twenty feet high, heavily warded and patrolled by armoured spearmen. They rode through the gate into a wide courtyard, which circled the palace. Dwarfing Ragen’s manse, the palace had four floors, and towers that reached twice that high. Broad, sharp wards marked every stone. The windows glittered with glass.

      Men in armour patrolled the yard, and pages in the Duke’s colours scurried to and fro. A hundred men sweated out in the yard; carpenters, masons, blacksmiths and butchers. Arlen saw grain stores and livestock, even broad gardens far larger than Ragen’s. It seemed to Arlen that if he should close the gate, the Duke could last forever in his keep.

      The noise and smell of the yard died as the heavy doors of the palace closed behind them. The entrance hall had a wide running carpet, and tapestries on the cool stone walls. Save for a few guards, there were no men to be seen. Dozens of women moved about instead, their wide skirts swishing as they went about their business. Some were drawing figures on slates, while others penned the results in heavy books. A few, more richly dressed than the rest, strolled about imperiously, watching the others at their work.

      ‘The Duke is in the audience chamber,’ one of them advised. ‘He has been expecting you for some time.’

      A long line of people waited outside the Duke’s audience chamber. It was mostly women holding quills and sheaves of paper, but there were a few well-dressed men as well.

      ‘Lesser petitioners,’ Ragen advised, ‘all hoping for a minute of the Duke’s time before the Evening Bell rings and they’re escorted out.’

      The lesser petitioners seemed acutely aware that there was little daylight left, and openly argued amongst themselves as to who ought to go next. But chatter died as they caught sight of Ragen. As the Messenger walked past, bypassing the line completely, all the petitioners fell silent, then followed in his wake like dogs eager for a feeding. They followed right up to the entranceway where a glare from the guards brought them up short. They crowded around the entrance to listen as Ragen and Arlen entered.

      Arlen felt dwarfed by the audience chamber of Duke Euchor of Miln. The domed ceiling of the room was storeys high, and ensconced torches rested on the great columns surrounding Euchor’s throne. Each column had wards carved into the marble.

      ‘Greater petitioners,’ Ragen said quietly, indicating the men and women moving about the room. ‘They tend to cluster.’ He nodded to a large group of men standing close to the door. ‘Merchant princes,’ he said. ‘Spreading gold around for the right to stand around the palace, sniffing for news, or a Noble to marry off their daughters to.’

      ‘There,’ he nodded towards a cluster of old women standing ahead of the Merchants, ‘the Council of Mothers, waiting to give Euchor his day’s reports.’

      Closer to the throne was a group of sandaled men in plain brown robes, standing with quiet dignity. A few spoke in murmurs, as others took down their every word. ‘Every court needs its Holy Men,’ Ragen explained.

      He pointed at last to a swarm of richly dressed people buzzing about the Duke, attended by an army of servants laden with trays of food and drink. ‘Royals,’ Ragen said. ‘The Duke’s nephews and cousins and second cousins thrice removed, all clamouring for his ear and dreaming of what will happen if Euchor vacates his throne without an heir. The Duke hates them.’

      ‘Why doesn’t he send them away?’ Arlen asked.

      ‘Because they’re Royals,’ Ragen said, as if that explained everything.

      They were halfway to the Duke’s throne when a tall woman moved to intercept them. Her hair was kept back in a cloth wrap, and her face was pinched and lined with wrinkles so deep it looked as if wards were carved into her cheeks. She moved with arch dignity, but a little wattle of flesh beneath her chin shook of its own accord. She had Selia’s air about her; a woman accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed without question. She looked down at Arlen and sniffed as if she had smelled a dung heap. Her gaze snapped up at Ragen.

      ‘Euchor’s chamberlain, Jone,’ Ragen muttered while they were still out of earshot. ‘Mother, Royal, and an eighth breed of coreling. Don’t stop walking unless I do, or she’ll have you waiting in the stables while I see the Duke.’

      ‘Your page will have to wait in the hall, Messenger,’ Jone said, stepping in front of them.

      ‘He’s not my page,’ Ragen said, continuing forward. Arlen kept pace, and the chamberlain was forced to sacrifice her dignity to scurry out of the way.

      ‘His Grace doesn’t have time for every stray off the street, Ragen!’ she hissed, hurrying to keep pace with the Messenger. ‘Who is he?’

      Ragen stopped, and Arlen stopped with him. He turned and glared at the woman, leaning in. Mother Jone might have been tall, but Ragen was taller, and he outweighed her thrice over. The sheer menace of his presence shrank her back involuntarily.

      ‘He is who I have chosen to bring,’ he said through his teeth. He thrust a satchel filled with letters at her, and Jone took it reflexively. As she did, the Merchants and Mothers’ Council swarmed her, along with the Tenders’ acolytes.

      The Royals noted the movement, and made comments or gestures to those next to them. Suddenly, half their entourage broke away, and Arlen realized those were just well dressed servants. The Royals acted as if nothing of note was happening, but their servants shoved as hard as any to get close to that satchel.

      Jone passed the letters on to a servant of her own and hurried towards the throne to announce Ragen, though she needn’t have bothered. Ragen’s entrance had caused enough of a stir that the man could not have failed to note him. Euchor was watching as they approached.

      The Duke was a heavyset man in his late fifties, with salt and pepper hair and a thick beard. He wore a green tunic, freshly stained with grease from his fingers, but richly СКАЧАТЬ