Peter Brett - The Desert Spear

"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.

A FEW WEEKS AFTER Renna's night in the outhouse, there was a visitor to the farm. Her heart jumped at the sight of a traveler on the road, but it wasn't Cobie Fisher, it was his father, Garric.

Garric Fisher was a big, burly man, much like his son in appearance. In his fifties, he had only a few streaks of white in his thick curly black hair and beard. He nodded curtly to Renna as he pulled up in his cart.

"Your da around, girl?" he asked.

Renna nodded.

Garric spat over the side of his cart. "Run and fetch him, then."

Renna nodded again and ran into the fields, her heart pounding. What could he want? Had he come to speak for Cobie? Did he still think of her? She was so preoccupied that she nearly crashed into her father as he emerged from a row of cornstalks.

"Night, girl! What in the Core's gotten into you now?" Harl asked, catching her shoulders and shaking her.

"Garric Fisher just rode in," Renna said. "He's waitin' for you in the yard."

Harl scowled. "He is, is he?" He wiped his hands on a rag and touched the bone handle of his knife as if to reassure himself of its presence, then headed out of the fields.

"Tanner!" Garric called, still sitting in the cart when they came into the yard. He hopped down and held out his hand. "It's good to see you lookin' well."

Harl nodded, shaking hands. "You, too, Fisher. What brings you out these ways?"