The Warded Man by Peter V. Brett

but Arlen had seen what he was like when someone cost him profit. There was no way he was going to let Arlen see the Jongleur for just two credits. He’d be lucky if the storekeep didn’t take a switch to him.
    But when he reached the square, he found over three hundred people gathered from all over the Brook. There were Fishers and Marshes and Boggins and Bales. Not to mention the town locals, Squares, Tailors, Millers, Bakers, and all. None had come from Southwatch, of course. Folk there shunned Jongleurs.
    “Arlen, my boy!” Hog called, seeing him approach. “I’ve saved you a spot up front, and you’ll go home tonight with a sack of salt! Well done!”
    Arlen looked at him curiously, until he saw Ragen, standing next to Hog. The Messenger winked at him.
    “Thank you,” Arlen said, when Hog went off to mark another arrival in his ledger. Dasy and Catrin were selling food and ale for the show.
    “People deserve a show,” Ragen said with a shrug. “But not without clearing it with your Tender, it seems.” He pointed to Keerin, who was deep in conversation with Tender Harral.
    “Don’t be selling any of that Plague nonsense to my flock!” Harral said, poking Keerin hard in the chest. He was twice the Jongleur’s weight, and none of it fat.
    “Nonsense?” Keerin asked, paling. “In Miln, the Tenders will string up any Jongleur that doesn’t tell of the Plague!”
    “I don’t care what they do in the Free Cities,” Harral said. “These’re good people, and they have it hard enough withoutyou telling ’em their suffering’s because they ent pious enough!”
    “What …?” Arlen began, but Keerin broke off, heading to the center of the square.
    “Best find a seat quick,” Ragen advised.
    As Hog promised, Arlen got a seat right in front, in the area usually left for the younger children. The others looked on enviously, and Arlen felt very special. It was rare for anyone to envy him.
    The Jongleur was tall, like all Milnese, dressed in a patchwork of bright colors that looked like they were stolen from the dyer’s scrap bin. He had a wispy goatee, the same carrot color as his hair, but the mustache never quite met the beard, and the whole thing looked like it might wash off with a good scrubbing. Everyone, especially the women, talked in wonder about his bright hair and green eyes.
    As people continued to file in, Keerin paced back and forth, juggling his colored wooden balls and telling jokes, warming to the crowd. When Hog gave the signal, he took his lute and began to play, singing in a strong, high voice. People clapped along to the songs they didn’t know, but whenever he played one that was sung in the Brook, the whole crowd sang along, drowning out the Jongleur and not seeming to care. Arlen didn’t mind; he was singing just as loud as the others.
    After the music came acrobatics, and magic tricks. Along the way, Keerin made a few jests about husbands that had the women shrieking with laughter while the men frowned, and a few about wives that had the men slapping their thighs as the women glared.
    Finally, the Jongleur paused and held up his hands for silence. There was a murmur from the crowd, and parents nudged their youngest children forward, wanting them to hear. Little Jessi Boggin, who was only five, climbed right into Arlen’s lap for a better view. Arlen had given her family a few pups from one of Jeph’s dogs a few weeks ago, and now she clung to him whenever he was near. He held her as Keerin began the Tale of the Return, his high voice dropping into a deep, booming call that carried far into the crowd.
    “The world was not always as you see it,” the Jongleur told the children. “Oh, no. There was a time when humanity lived inbalance with the demons. Those early years are called the Age of Ignorance. Does anyone know why?” He looked around the children in front, and several raised their hands.
    “Because there wasn’t any wards?” a girl asked, when Keerin pointed to