Peter Brett - The Desert Spear

Jardir nodded, digesting the knowledge. "He had power over the alagai with his music. Commanded them with it. What of that?"

Abban shrugged. "The tales of the Painted Man speak of such a one, who charms alagai with his magic, but I know nothing of this power. It is not common, I imagine." Rojer watched uneasily as the Krasians cast furtive glances his way. It was obvious they were talking about him, but while Rojer's trained ear had already begun to isolate the sounds and patterns of their surprisingly musical tongue, understanding was still far off.

The Krasians both terrified and fascinated him, much as the Painted Man did. Rojer was a teller of stories as much as a fiddler, and he had woven many a tale of Krasia yet he had never met someone from that land. A thousand questions shouted in his head, but caught in a jumble before they could reach his tongue, because these weren't the exotic princes of his stories. Rojer had ridden the road to Rizon and seen their handiwork. Cultured or no, these were murderers, rapists, and bandits.

Jardir glanced his way again, and before Rojer could avert his gaze, their eyes met. Rojer started, feeling like a cornered hare.

"Forgive me, we have been impolite," Jardir said, bowing.

Rojer pretended to scratch his chest, but it was just an excuse to touch his talisman. He drew strength both from the medallion and the reassuring presence of Gared at his side. Not for the first time, Rojer was glad for the mighty woodcutter's oath to keep him protected.

"No offense taken," he said, nodding.

"There are no Jonglers among my people," Jardir said. "Your profession interests us."

"You don't have musicians?" Rojer asked, shocked.

"We do," Jardir said, "but in Krasia, music is used only to praise Everam, not to charm demons on the battlefield. Tell me, is this power common in the North?"

Rojer barked a laugh. "Not in the least." He threw back his tea, wishing the cup held something stronger. "I can't even teach it. Don't know quite how I do it myself."

"Perhaps Everam speaks to you," Jardir suggested. "Perhaps He has blessed your line with this power. Have any of your sons shown promise?"

Rojer laughed again. "Sons? I'm not even married."

The Krasians seemed shocked at this. "A man of your power should have many brides to bear him sons," Jardir said.

Rojer chuckled, lifting his cup to them. "Agreed. I should have many brides."

Leesha snorted. "I'd like to see you handle one." Everyone on both sides of the table had a laugh at Rojer's expense. He weathered it silently; jokes at his expense were nothing new in the Hollow, but he felt his cheeks coloring all the same. He looked at Jardir, only to find that the Krasian leader was not among those laughing.

"May I ask you a personal question, son of Jessum?" Jardir asked.

Rojer touched the medallion at his father's name, but he nodded.

"How did you get that scar?" Jardir asked, pointing at the crippled hand Rojer had raised, missing two fingers and part of the palm besides. "It looks old, too old for you to have gotten it fighting alagai as a man, and it hinders you little, as if you've had it for many years."

Rojer felt his blood run cold. His eyes flicked to the fat merchant prince in his bright silks; treated with such derision by his fellows because he was crippled. He wondered if the Krasians thought him less a man for having only half a hand.

Everyone else had stopped talking, waiting on Rojer's answer. They had all been half listening anyway, but now everyone stared at them openly.

Rojer scowled. Are the Hollowers so different? he wondered. None of them, not even Leesha, had ever so much as mentioned his crippled hand, trying to pretend it didn't exist, and then staring when they thought he wasn't watching.

At least he's honest about his curiosity, Rojer thought, looking back to Jardir. And I don't give a coreling's shit what he thinks of me.

"Demons broke through our wards when I was a child of three," he said. "My father stood with an iron fireplace poker to hold them off while my mother fled with me. A flame demon leapt upon her back, biting though my hand and into her shoulder."

"How did you survive this?" Jardir asked. "Did your father save you?"

Rojer shook his head. "My father was dead by then. My mother killed the flame demon, and pushed me into a bolt-hole."

There were gasps around the table, and even Jardir's eyes widened sharply.

"Your mother killed a flame demon?" he asked.

Rojer nodded. "Pulled it off me and drowned it in a water trough. The water boiled and left her arms blistered and red by the time its thrashing stopped."

"Oh, Rojer, how terrible!" Leesha moaned. "You never told me any of that!"

Rojer shrugged. "You never asked. No one's ever asked me about my hand before. Everyone, even you, avoids it with their eyes."

"I always thought you wanted privacy," Leesha said. "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable by calling attention to your…"

"Deformity?" Rojer supplied, irritated by the pity in her voice.

Jardir stood sharply, his face enraged. Everyone on both sides of the table tensed, ready in an instant to fight or flee.

"That is an alagai scar!" he shouted, reaching across the table and grabbing Rojer's hand, holding it up for all to see. "Nie take any who look upon you in pity; this is a badge of honor!

"Scars show our defiance of the alagai!" he shouted. "And of Nie Herself! They tell Her we have looked at the maw of Her abyss, and spit in it.

"Hasik!" Jardir pointed to the largest of his warriors. At his command, the warrior stood and opened his armored robe, showing a semicircle of tooth marks that covered half his torso.

"Clay demon," he said, his accent thick. "Big," he added, spreading his arms.

Jardir turned to Gared and narrowed his eyes in challenge.

"Not bad," Gared grunted. "Reckon I got it beat, though." He pulled the shirt from his muscled chest, turning to reveal a thick line of claw marks running from his right shoulder to his left hip. "Woodie got me good," he said. "Smaller man mighta been cut in half."

Rojer watched in wonder as it went around the room like a little ripple, people on both sides of the table standing up to show scars and shouting their stories, arguing over whose were bigger. After the last year in the Hollow, there was hardly a person in town who didn't have at least one.

But there was no air of regret in the room. People were roaring with laughter as near misses were recalled and sometimes pantomimed, even the Krasians slapping their knees in delight. Rojer looked to Wonda, the girl's face horribly scarred, and saw her smiling for the first time he could recall.

When the cacophony was at it highest, Jardir stood upon his bench like a master Jongleur. "Let the alagaisee our scars, and despair!" he cried, removing his own robe.

Muscles rippled along his olive skin, but it was not that which drew amazed gasps from every mouth in the room. It was his scars. They were wards. Hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, cut into his skin like the tattoos of the Painted Man.

"Night, maybe he is the Deliverer," Rojer muttered.

"YOU'D BEST LIMP QUICKER," Hasik told Abban with a laugh, "or you will be left behind in the darkness."

Abban grimaced in pain, sweat running in rivulets down his thick-jowled face. Ahmann set a brutal pace back to the Krasian camp, and he strode ahead with Ashan, leaving poor Abban stuck between Hasik and Shanjat, two men who had tortured him since childhood and did worse now.

Just a week earlier, Hasik had raped one of Abban's daughters when he came to their pavilion to deliver a message. The time before, it was one of his wives. Jurim and Shanjat had made a point of taking Abban's nie'Sharum sons under their wing in the Kaji'sharaj, instilling in them such a disgust of their khaffit father that Abban's heart felt torn. All the Spears of the Deliverer jeered and spat at him, striking him at their pleasure when the Shar'Dama Ka was not about. They all knew Ahmann from of old, and resented that Abban had the Deliverer's ear as they did not. Abban knew that if he ever fell from Ahmann's favor, his life would be short indeed.