Peter Brett - The Desert Spear

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.