CHAPTER 18
GUILDMASTER CHOLLS
333 AR SPRING
“WHY DID YOU AGREE to go?” Rojer asked in a low voice after Janson had escorted the men back to the parlor and left them alone to wait for Leesha and Wonda. “Rhinebeck is just trying to be rid of you because he’s afraid his own subjects will flock to you.”
“I don’t want that any more than he does,” the Painted Man said. “I don’t want people to start thinking of me as some kind of savior. Besides, I have my own reasons for wanting to visit Miln, and going under Rhinebeck’s seal is too good an opportunity to let slip past.”
“You’re going to give them your battle wards,” Rojer said.
The Painted Man nodded. “Among other things.”
“All right,” Rojer said. “When do we leave?”
The Painted Man looked at him. “There is no ‘we ’ here, Rojer. I’m going to Miln alone. I’ll be traveling at speed through the nights, and I don’t need you slowing me down. Besides, you have apprentices to train.”
“What’s the point?” Rojer asked. “Whatever it is I do to the corelings, it’s not something I can teach.”
“Demonshit,” the Painted Man snapped. “That’s quitting talk. You’ve only been training apprentices for a few months. We need those fiddle wizards, Rojer. You need to find a way to get them ready.” He took Rojer’s shoulders, looking into his eyes, and Rojer saw the endless determination that burned in the man and, more, his confidence in Rojer. “You can do this,” the Painted Man said, squeezing his shoulders. He turned away, but that stare remained with Rojer, and he felt as if some of the man’s determination had passed on to him. If he couldn’t train the apprentices, he knew who could. All he needed to do was swallow his fear and go to them.
Gared came to the Painted Man, dropping to one knee. “Let me go with ya,” he begged. “I ent afraid to gallop at night. I won’t slow ya.”
“Get up,” the Painted Man snapped, kicking at Gared’s bent knee. The giant Cutter rose to his feet quickly, but kept his eyes down. The Painted Man put a hand on his shoulder.
“I know you wouldn’t slow me, Gared,” he said, “but you’re not going, either. I’m going to Miln alone.”
“But you need someone to protect you,” Gared said. “The world needs you.”
“The world needs men like you more than it needs me,” the Painted Man told Gared, “and I don’t need a bodyguard. I have another task in mind for you.”
“Anything,” Gared promised.
“I don’t need a guard, but Rojer does,” the Painted Man said. Rojer looked at him sharply, but the Painted Man ignored him. “As Wonda guards Leesha, I want you to watch over Rojer. His fiddle magic is unique and irreplaceable, and may turn the tide if we can harness it.”
Gared bowed deeply and stepped into a sunbeam streaming in from a window. “I swear it by the sun.” He looked at Rojer. “I won’t let him leave my sight.”
Rojer looked at the giant, unpredictable Cutter with not a little apprehension, unsure if he should be comforted or terrified. “Let me use the privy in peace, at least.”
Gared laughed and slapped him on the back, knocking all the air from Rojer’s body and nearly throwing him to the floor.
“I’m leaving for Fort Miln before the north gate is barred tonight,” the Painted Man told Leesha on the carriage ride back to Jizell’s hospit, after filling her in on the rest of his audience with the duke, which had gone precisely as the duchess mum had predicted. “In fact, I mean to go as soon as I can pack Twilight Dancer for the journey.”
Leesha had instructed Wonda to keep a straight face if the men confirmed Araine’s words. The girl performed admirably, but Leesha herself had to force down the smile that threatened to turn up the corners of her mouth. “Oh?”
“Rhinebeck wants me to go as his agent to Duke Euchor, petitioning him for aid in driving the Krasians out of Thesan lands,” the Painted Man said.
Leesha pretended to nod grimly, awed at the duchess mum’s power. What she wouldn’t give to bend men to her will so, without their ever knowing!
The Painted Man looked expectantly at her. “What?”
“No protests at my leaving?” He seemed almost disappointed. “No insistent offers to accompany me?”
Leesha snorted. “I have business back in the Hollow,” she said, not meeting his eyes, “and you’ve made no secret that you want to spread the battle wards to every city and hamlet. It’s for the best.”
The Painted Man nodded. “I think so, too.”
They passed the rest of the ride in silence, and arrived back at the hospit as the apprentices were taking the linens off the lines.
“Gared, please help the girls haul the laundry baskets,” Leesha said as the empty carriage pulled away. Gared nodded and went off.
“Wonda,” Leesha said. “The Painted Man will need ammunition for his ride north. Please fetch a few bundles of warded arrows.”
“Ay, mistress,” Wonda said, bowing, and headed inside.
“Five minutes at court, and everyone’s bowing to everyone else,” Rojer muttered.
“Rojer, would you ask Mistress Jizell to have the girls pack food for his saddlebags?” Leesha asked.
Rojer looked at them and scowled. “Might be best I stay and chaperone.”
Leesha gave him such a withering glare that he shrank back. He bowed with a sarcastic flourish and headed off. Leesha and the Painted Man went to the stables, and he fetched his warded saddle and the stallion’s barding.
“You will be careful, won’t you?” Leesha asked him.
“I wouldn’t have survived so long if I wasn’t,” he said.
“Fair point,” Leesha said, “but I didn’t just mean with the corelings. Duke Euchor has a…harder reputation than Rhinebeck.”
“You mean he’s not led around by the nose by his councilors?” the Painted Man asked. “I know. I’ve met Euchor before.”
Leesha shook her head. “Is there anywhere you haven’t been?”
The Painted Man shrugged. “Over the eastern mountain range. Through the western wood. Past the Krasian Desert to the seashore.” He looked at her. “But I’ll see all those places one day, if I can.”
“I’d like to see them as well, Creator willing,” Leesha said.
“Nothing stopping you or anyone from going anywhere, now,” the Painted Man said, holding up a tattooed hand.
I meant with you, she wanted to say, but swallowed it. His words said it all. She was his Rojer. There was no point in pretending otherwise any longer.
The Painted Man reached out his hand. “You be careful, too, Leesha.”
Leesha slapped his hand away and embraced him. “Goodbye.”
An hour later, he was galloping north from the city, and though her eyes were wet, Leesha felt as if a great weight had lifted from her.
Leesha fell into her old patterns at the hospit, giving the apprentices a lesson and doing rounds while Jizell caught up on her correspondence. Part of her thought hungrily of the books of warding in the satchel in her room upstairs, but she resisted the temptation to immerse herself in Arlen’s lore, for she knew once she did, she would be able to think of nothing else. Learning was as addictive to Leesha as the jolt of magic that came with killing a coreling with his warded axe was to Gared. But for a few hours, at least, she decided to take comfort in the simple pleasure of grinding herbs and treating patients with nothing worse than a broken bone or a bad chill.
When last rounds were completed and the apprentices shooed off to bed, Leesha brewed a pot of tea and took a cup to Jizell’s sitting room. The room would be empty at this time of night, and there was a warm hearth and a small writing desk there. Leesha had her own correspondence to catch up on, Herb Gatherers throughout the duchy that she kept in touch with, many of whom had yet to be informed of Bruna’s passing last year. Like grinding herbs, keeping in touch with old friends was another thing Leesha had not had time for since she and Rojer met the Painted Man.
But as she drew near the sitting room, she heard the sound of breaking glass. She entered the room to see Rojer behind Jizell’s desk, a carafe of brandy open in front of him. The fire hissed and popped angrily, and there were wet shards of glass on the stone of the fireplace.
“Are you trying to burn the whole building down?” Leesha shouted, pulling a rag from her apron and running to wipe up the alcohol before it caught flame.
Rojer ignored her, taking another glass and filling it.
“Mistress Jizell won’t be pleased at you shattering her glass, Rojer,” Leesha said.
Rojer reached into the motley bag he carried everywhere. It was old, stained, and weather-worn, but Rojer still referred to it as his “bag of marvels.” Indeed, he could reach into it at will and pull forth something to widen the eyes of even the most skeptical audience.
He threw a handful of the Painted Man’s ancient gold coins on the desk. They bounced with a clatter, and half of them fell to the floor. “She can buy a hundred more now.”
“Rojer, what is the matter with you?” Leesha demanded. “If this is about sending you away before…”
Rojer waved his hand dismissively, taking a pull from his glass. Leesha could tell he was already very drunk. “Don’t care how you and Arlen said goodbye in the stable.”
Leesha glared. “I didn’t stick him, if that’s what you’re implying.”
Rojer shrugged. “Your business if you did.”
“Then what is it?” Leesha asked softly, coming over to him. Rojer looked at her a moment, then reached into his bag of marvels again, producing a slim wooden box he opened to reveal a heavy gold medallion.
“Minister Janson gave this to me,” Rojer said. “It’s a Royal Medal of Valor. The duke gave it to Arrick for saving me the night Riverbridge fell. I never knew.”
“You miss him,” Leesha said. “It’s only natural. He saved your life.”
“The Core he did!” Rojer cried, grabbing the chain and hurling the medal across the room. It struck the wall with a heavy thunk and dropped to the floor with a clatter.
Leesha put her hands on Rojer’s shoulders, but his lips curled and for a moment, she thought he might strike her. “Rojer, what happened?” she asked softly.
Rojer pulled away from her hands and turned away. For a moment she thought he would remain silent, but then he began to speak.
“I used to think it was just a nightmare.” His voice was strained and tight, as if it might break at any moment. “We were dancing, my mother and I, while Arrick played the fiddle. My father and a Messenger, Geral, were clapping along. It was off-season, and there was no one else in the inn that night.”
He drew a deep breath, swallowing hard. “There was a crash, as something hit the door. I remember my father had been arguing that morning with Master Piter, the Warder, but he and Geral said not to worry.” He chuckled mirthlessly, sniffling. “I guess we should have, because as we all turned to the sound, a rock demon burst through the door.”
“Oh, Rojer!” Leesha said, covering her mouth, but Rojer did not turn.
“The rock was followed by a blaze of flame demons, pouring in around its legs as it smashed the lintel and jambs of the doorway to fit through. My mother snatched me up in her arms, and everyone started shouting at once, but I don’t remember what was said, except…” He sobbed, and Leesha had to fight the urge to go to him.
Rojer composed himself quickly. “Geral threw his warded shield to Arrick and told him to get my mother and me to safety. Geral took his spear and my father an iron poker from the fireplace, and they turned to hold off the corelings.”
Rojer was silent a long time. When he spoke again, it was a cold monotone, lacking any emotion at all. “My mother ran to him, but Arrick shoved her aside, snatched up his bag of marvels, and ran from the room.”
Leesha gasped, and Rojer nodded. “Honest word. Arrick only helped me because my mother shoved me into the bolt-hole with him, just before the demons took her. Even then, he tried to leave me.”
He reached out to Arrick’s bag of marvels, running his fingers across the worn velvet and cracked leather patches. “It wasn’t threadbare and faded then. Arrick was the duke’s man, and this bag was bright and new, as befit a royal herald.
“That’s the truth of Arrick’s valor,” he said through clenched teeth. “Saving a bag of toys!” He snatched up the bag in his good hand, clenching it so tightly his knuckles showed white. “A bag I carry around with me everywhere, like it’s just as important to me!” He shook the bag in Leesha’s face, then his eyes flicked to the fire roaring in the hearth, and he moved around the desk toward the fireplace.
“Rojer, no!” Leesha shouted, moving to intercept him and grabbing the bag. Rojer held on tightly so she could not pull it away, but he did not try to push past her. They locked stares, Rojer’s eyes wide like a cornered animal. Leesha put her arms around him, and he buried his face in her bosom, weeping for some time.
When his convulsions finally eased, Leesha let go, but Rojer held her tight. His eyes were closed, but his mouth moved toward hers. She pulled back quickly, catching Rojer as he stumbled drunkenly.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s all right,” she said, guiding him back to the desk chair where he sat heavily and held a breath, as if to suppress a roiling stomach. His face was pale and sweaty.
“Drink my tea,” Leesha said. She took the bag of marvels from him, and Rojer let it go without resistance. She set the bag in a dark corner, well away from the fire, and retrieved Arrick’s gold medallion from where it lay on the floor.
“Why did he leave it behind?” Rojer asked, looking at the medallion. “When the duke threw us out, he took everything in our chambers that wasn’t staked to the floor. He could have sold that medal along with all the other things he peddled over the years we drifted. It could have fed and boarded us for months. Night, it could have paid every bar tab Arrick had in the city, and that’s saying something.”
“Maybe he knew he didn’t deserve it,” Leesha said. “Maybe he was ashamed of what he ’d done.”
Rojer nodded. “I think so. And for some reason, it’s worse. I want to hate him…”
“But he was like a father to you, and you can’t bring yourself to do it,” Leesha finished. She shook her head. “I know that feeling well.”
Leesha turned the medallion over in her hands, feeling the smooth back. “Rojer, what were your parents’ names?”
“Kally and Jessum,” Rojer said. “Why?”
Leesha laid the medallion on the desk and reached into one of the many pockets of her apron, pulling forth the small leather bundle that held her ward-etching tools. “If this medal is meant to honor your being saved from the massacre at Riverbridge, then it should honor everyone.”
With a smooth, flowing script, she etched KALLY, JESSUM, and GERAL into the soft metal. When she was finished, the names glittered in the firelight. Rojer looked at them with wide eyes as Leesha took the heavy chain and put it over his head. “When you look at this, don’t think of Arrick’s failure. Remember those whose sacrifice went unsung.”
Rojer touched the medallion, tears falling onto the gold. “I’ll never let it out of reach.”
Leesha put a hand on his shoulder. “I think you will, if it comes down to saving the medal, or someone’s life. You’re not Arrick, Rojer. You’re made of sterner stuff.”
Rojer nodded. “Time I proved it.” He got to his feet, but wobbled so unsteadily he had to slap a hand onto the desk for balance.
“In the morning,” he amended.
“Hold on to your wits and let me do the talking,” Rojer told Gared as they entered the Jongleurs’ Guildhouse. “Don’t be fooled by the bright smiles and motley. Half the men in here can slip the purse right from your pocket without you ever knowing.”
Gared reflexively slapped his hand to his pocket.
“Don’t clutch it, either,” Rojer added. “You’re just advertising where you keep it.”
“So what should I do?” Gared asked.
“Just keep your hands at your sides and don’t let anyone bump into you,” Rojer said. Gared nodded and followed close behind as Rojer navigated the halls. The giant Cutter, his warded axes crossed on his back, drew a few stares in the guildhouse, but not too many. The Jongleurs’ Guild was all about spectacle, and those who stared were likely only wondering what part the big man was playing, and in what production.
Finally, they came to the offices of the guildmaster. “Rojer Halfgrip to see Guildmaster Cholls,” Rojer told the receiving clerk.
The man looked up sharply. It was Daved, Cholls’ secretary, whom Rojer had met before.
“Are you mad, coming here after all this time?” Daved asked in a harsh whisper, glancing down the hall to see if anyone was watching. “The guildmaster will have your stones!”
“Not if he wants to keep his own, he won’t,” Gared growled. Daved turned to him, seeing only a pair of burly crossed arms, and had to crane his head up to look Gared in the eye.
“As you say, sir,” the clerk said, swallowing hard. He got up from his tiny hallway desk. “I will inform the guildmaster you’re waiting.” He went to the heavy oak doors of the guildmaster’s office, knocked, and vanished inside at the muffled reply.
“Here?! Now?!” a man cried from inside, and a moment later the doors burst open to reveal Guildmaster Cholls. Rather than the motley almost all Jongleurs wore, the guildmaster was dressed in a fine linen shirt and wool waistcoat, his beard trim and his hair combed neatly back with oil. He looked more like a royal than a Jongleur. As he thought about it, Rojer realized he had never once seen the guildmaster perform. He wondered if Cholls was a Jongleur at all.
The guildmaster’s face was a thunderhead, pulling Rojer from his musing. “You’ve got some stones, coming back here, Halfgrip! We had a ripping funeral for you, and you still owe me…” He glanced at Daved.
“Five thousand klats,” Daved supplied, “give or take a few dozen.”
“We can sort that first,” Rojer said, pulling a purse of the Painted Man’s ancient coins from his pocket and tossing it to the guildmaster. The coins were worth twice his debt, at least.
Cholls’ eyes lit up at the glitter of gold as he opened the purse. He snatched a coin at random and bit it, his scowl vanishing at the imprint his teeth made in the soft metal. He looked back to Rojer.
“I suppose I can make some time to hear your excuses,” he said, stepping aside to allow Rojer and Gared into his office. “Daved, bring some tea for our guests.”
Daved brought in the tea, and Rojer slipped him another gold coin, likely more money than the clerk saw in a year. “That’s for the paperwork to make me alive again.”
Daved nodded, his smile wide. “You’ll be off the pyre and back among the living by sunset.” He left the office, closing the door behind him.
“All right, Rojer,” Cholls said. “What in the night happened last year and where in the Core have you been? One day you and Jaycob are raking in the klats to pay your debt, and the next I get a note from some clerk, asking me to pay for the pyre for Master Jaycob’s body in the city coldhouse, with you just vanished!”
“Master Jaycob and I were attacked,” Rojer said. “Spent months in hospit recovering, and when I was well, I thought it best to leave town for a bit.” He smiled. “But since then, I’ve been witnessing the greatest ripping tampweed tale anyone’s ever seen, and the best part is, it’s true!”
“Not good enough, Halfgrip,” Cholls said. “Attacked by who?”
Rojer gave the guildmaster a knowing look. “Who do you think?”
Cholls’ eyes widened, and he coughed to cover it. “Ay…well, what’s important is that you’re all right.”
“Someone put ya in the hospit?” Gared asked, balling a fist. “Jus’ tell me where to find ’em, and I’ll—”
“We ’re not here for that,” Rojer said, laying a hand on Gared’s arm, but looking at Cholls as he did. The guildmaster blew out a breath, seeming to deflate.
“To the Core with tea,” Cholls muttered, “I could do with a real drink.” His hands shook a little as he reached into his desk, producing a glazed clay jug and three cups. He poured a generous portion in each and handed them out.
“To choosing our battles wisely,” the guildmaster said, raising his cup and exchanging a look with Rojer as they drank.
Gared looked at them both suspiciously, and Rojer wondered if the burly Cutter was really quite as dim as everyone thought. After a moment, though, Gared shrugged and tossed back the cup, swallowing it all in one gulp.
Immediately his eyes bulged, and his face turned bright red. He bent over, coughing violently.
“Creator, boy, you don’t gulp it!” Cholls scolded. “That’s Angierian brandy, and likely older than you are. It’s meant to be sipped.”
“Sorry, sir,” Gared gasped, his voice gone hoarse.
“They’re used to watered ale in the Hollow,” Rojer said. “Great foaming mugs that giants like Gared throw back by the dozen. What little spirit they have goes right from the fermenting tub to the glass.”
“No appreciation for the subtle,” Cholls agreed, nodding. “And you, Halfgrip?”
Rojer smiled. “I was Arrick’s apprentice, wasn’t I?” He took another pull from his cup and swished the liquid in his mouth, savoring the taste as he exhaled the alcohol burn through his nostrils. “I was drinking brandy before I had hair on my seedpods.”
Cholls laughed, reaching into his desk again and producing a leather weed pouch. “They do smoke in the Hollow, ay?” he asked Gared, who was still coughing a little. Gared nodded.
The guildmaster gave a start, whipping around to look at Rojer. “The Hollow, you say?”
“Ay,” Rojer said, taking a pinch from Cholls’ pouch and packing it into a pipe that appeared in his crippled hand. “I did.”
Cholls gaped. “You’re the Painted Man’s fiddle wizard?!”
Rojer nodded, lighting a taper from the lamp on the guildmaster’s desk and puffing the pipe to a glow.
Cholls sat back, regarding Rojer. After a moment, he nodded. “Guess it’s not too much of a surprise, at that. I always thought you had a bit of magic in your fiddling.”
Rojer passed him the taper, and Cholls puffed his own pipe to life, passing it to Gared.
They smoked in silence for a time, but eventually Cholls sat up and knocked the dottle from his pipe, setting it on its small wooden stand on his desk. “All right, Rojer, you can sit there smugly all day, but I have a guild to run. You’re telling me you were in Cutter’s Hollow for the coming of the Painted Man?”
“I wasn’t just in the Hollow for the coming of the Painted Man,” Rojer said. “He arrived with me and Leesha Paper.”
“The one they call the ward witch?” Cholls asked.
Rojer nodded.
Cholls’ eyebrows narrowed. “If you’re spinning some ale story at me, Rojer, I swear by the sun I’ll…”
“It’s no ale story, this,” Rojer said. “Every word is true.”
“You and I both know that we ’re talking about a story every Jongleur alive would kill for,” Cholls said, “so let’s skip to the end. How much do you want for it?”
“I’m not motivated by money anymore, Guildmaster,” Rojer said.
“Don’t tell me you’ve had some kind of religious awakening,” Cholls said. “Arrick would roll over in his grave. This Painted Man may fill seats at a Jongleur show, but you don’t actually think he’s the Deliverer, do you?”
There was a loud crack, and both men looked to see one of Gared’s chair arms had broken off in the big man’s grip. “He is the Deliverer,” Gared growled, “and I’ll have at any man that says otherwise.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Rojer snapped. “He’s said himself he isn’t, and unless you want me to tell him what an ass you’re making of yourself, you’ll keep your peace.”
Gared glared at him a moment, and Rojer felt his blood run cold, but he met the stare with one of his own and didn’t back down an inch. After a moment, Gared calmed and looked sheepishly at the guildmaster.
“Sorry about the chair,” he said, trying lamely to put the arm back on.
“Ah…think nothing of it,” Cholls said, though Rojer knew the chair cost more than most Jongleurs ever had in their purse at once.
“I’m not qualified to say he’s the Deliverer or not,” Rojer said. “Until last year, I thought the Painted Man’s very existence was an ale story. I spun more than a few of them, myself, making them up as I went along.” He leaned in to the guildmaster. “But he ’s real. He kills demons with his bare hands, and he has powers I can’t explain.”
“Jongleur’s tricks,” Cholls said skeptically.
Rojer shook his head. “I’ve dazzled my share of yokels with magic tricks, Guildmaster. I’m not some bumpkin taken in by sleight of hand and flash powders. I’m not calling him Creator-sent, but he has real magic, sure as the sun shines.”
Cholls sat back, steepling his fingers. “Let’s say you’re telling the truth. That still doesn’t explain why you’re here, if you aren’t looking to sell me the story.”
“Oh, I’ll sell it,” Rojer said. “I composed a song, ‘The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow,’ that will be called for in every ale house and square in the city, and there are enough stories from the last year to keep your Jongleurs working just to empty their collection hats so the people can fill them again.”
“Then what do you want, if not money?” Cholls asked.
“I need to train others to use fiddle magic,” Rojer said. “But I’m no teacher. I’ve had apprentices for months now, and they can fiddle well enough to spin dancers in a reel, but none of them can shift a coreling’s mood from more than ‘blood-crazed’ to ‘savage.’ ”
“There are two aspects of music, Rojer,” Cholls said, “skill and talent. One is learned, the other is not. In all my years, I’ve never seen someone with talent like yours. You have a natural gift that no fiddle instructor can teach.”
“So you won’t help?” Rojer asked.
“I didn’t say that,” Cholls said. “I just want you forewarned. Perhaps there’s something we can do, even so. Did Arrick teach you sound signs?”
Rojer looked at the guildmaster curiously and shook his head.
“It’s using your hands to give instructions to a group of players,” Cholls said.
“Like a conductor,” Rojer said.
Cholls shook his head. “A conductor’s players already know the piece. A sound signaler can compose on the spot, and if his players know the signs, they can immediately follow.”
Rojer sat up straight in his chair. “Honest word?”
Cholls smiled. “Honest word. We have a number of masters who can teach the art. I’ll send the lot of them to Deliverer’s Hollow, and assign them to follow your word.”
Rojer blinked.
“It’s not entirely unselfish of me,” Cholls said. “Whatever stories you give us now will do for a short while, but Deliverer or no, this is the defining event of our time, and the tale is still unfolding. The Hollow is clearly at the crux of it, and I’ve wanted to send Jongleurs there for some time, but with the flux at first and then the refugees, no one has had the stones to go. If you can promise safety and board, I’ll…persuade them.”
“I can guarantee it,” Rojer said, smiling.