Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

“Husband, when will you return?” Sikvah called.

“Not until late in the day,” and Rojer was through the door, closing it behind him.

Coliv stood in a shadowed nook just outside the door to the apartments. The Watcher gave Rojer a nod of acknowledgment, but said nothing.

“Post extra Sharum around the restaurant,” Rojer said. “We have enemies in the day.”

“All men have enemies in the day,” Coliv said. “It is only in the night we become brothers.”

“Just post the ripping men,” Rojer snapped.

Coliv gave a slight bow. “It is already done, son of Jeph. The Holy Daughter issued these commands yesterday.”

Rojer sighed. “Course she did.”

Coliv tilted his head. “This man, Goldentone. He owes you a blood debt, yes?”

Rojer kept his face blank. “Yes. But I don’t want you and my jiwah involved.”

Coliv bowed again, deeper this time, and for two heartbeats longer. “I apologize for underestimating you, son of Jessum. You greenlanders do know something of the Sharum way. There is no honor in a man sending assassins to collect his blood debts.”

Rojer blinked. This from the master assassin? “Then don’t get involved. Even if Amanvah commands it.”

Coliv bowed one last time, shallow and brief. “There is no honor in assassination, master, but it is sometimes necessary. If the Holy Daughter commands I get involved, I will be involved.”

Rojer swallowed. Part of him thrilled at the thought of Coliv putting his spear through the hearts of Jasin and his apprentices, but it wouldn’t end there. Jasin had family. Powerful family with deep ties to the ivy throne. Blood would be paid in blood.

He took the steps three at a time, practically bouncing at the landing and out the back door to Shamavah’s stables. Krasian children in tan tended the animals, and they all hopped when they saw him, rushing to be the first to help.

The quickest proved to be young Shalivah, Drillmaster Kaval’s granddaughter. The drillmaster, too, had died for Rojer. As had Amanvah’s bodyguard Enkido. Two more names to etch into the medallion. Seven lives now, paid for his one.

“Will master need his mottley coach?” the girl asked, her words quick and heavily accented.

Rojer pulled a bright Jongleur’s mask over his face in an instant. She didn’t see him slip the tiny flower from his bright new bag of marvels. To her it appeared from thin air, and she gasped as he gave it to her.

“ Motley, Shalivah, not mottley. Motley means ‘colorful.’ Mottley means ‘spotted.’ Do you understand?”

The girl nodded, and Rojer produced a sugar candy. “Say it. Motley.”

The girl smiled, leaping for the candy. Rojer was not a tall man, but even he could keep it from the child’s reach. “Motley!” she cried. “Motley! Motley! Motley!”

Rojer flipped her the candy. Her squeal of glee brought the attention of the other children, looking at him expectantly.

He did not disappoint. More candies were already hidden in his hand. He gave a stage laugh to cover a heavy heart as he spun, nimbly flicking a candy unerringly into the hands of each.

Their families bled for him, and he repaid them in candy.

The new baron shifted uncomfortably at his great goldwood desk. His giant fist made the quill look like a hummingbird feather as he scrawled something approximating a signature to the seemingly endless stack of papers slid before him by Squire Emet, a minor Angierian lordling Thamos had appointed the baron’s secretary.

“Rojer!” Gared cried, rising immediately to his feet as he entered the office.

“My lord,” the secretary began.

“Rojer’s got important business, Emet. Yu’ll have to come back later.” Gared loomed over the secretary, and Emet was wise enough to gather his papers and whisk out of the room.

Gared closed the heavy doors, putting his back to them and blowing out a breath as if he had just escaped a reap of field demons. “Thank the Creator. Ready to throw that whole desk out the window, I had to sign one more paper.”

Rojer’s eyes flicked to the great heavy desk and the window several feet away. If anyone alive could do it, it was Gared Cutter.

Rojer grinned. He always felt safer around Gared. “Always happy to provide an escape from paperwork.”

Gared grinned. “You come by around eleven each morning with a new emergency, I’ll thank you for it. Drink?”

“Night, yes.” Rojer had drained the skin, but wine was slow. Gared had developed a taste for Angierian brandy, and kept a bottle in his office. Rojer moved to the service, pouring two glasses. He was quick, and Gared didn’t notice as he drained one and refilled it before bringing them over.

They clicked glasses and drank. Gared took only a pull, but Rojer shot his, moving to fill a third. “Today it’s not a lie. Got an emergency, sure enough.”

“Ay?” Gared asked. “Sun’s up and nothing’s aflame, so it can’t be too bad. Let’s have a pipe and talk about it, before we’re off to meet the duke’s herald. You think his voice really sounds as good as gold?”

Rojer shot the next glass, filling a fourth before coming to sit on one of the chairs before the great desk. Gared took the other, packing his pipe. Gared Cutter wasn’t one to put a desk between him and anyone else.

Rojer took the offered leaf and packed his own pipe. “You recall how I met Leesha in the hospit?”

“Everyone knows that story,” Gared said. “Start of the tale of how you met the Deliverer.”

Rojer didn’t have the strength to argue. “Remember you asked who put me there?” Gared nodded.

Rojer emptied his glass. “It was the duke’s herald with the golden voice.”

Gared’s face darkened instantly, like a father finding his daughter with a black eye. He balled a meaty fist. “He’ll be lucky if all the Gatherers in the Hollow can stitch him back together when I’m done with him.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Rojer said. “You’re the Baron of Cutter’s Hollow, not the bouncer at Smitt’s.”

“Can’t just let something like that lie,” Gared said.

Rojer looked at him. “Jasin Goldentone is the duke’s herald, the representative of the ivy throne in the Hollow. “Anything you say to him, you are saying to Duke Rhinebeck himself. Anything you do to him, you do to Rhinebeck himself.”

He gave Gared a look that set even the menacing Cutter aback. “Do you have any idea what the duke would do to you—to the Hollow—if you beat his ripping herald to death?”

Gared’s brow furrowed. “So we should get someone else to do it?”

Rojer closed his eyes and counted to ten. “Just let me handle it.”

Gared looked at him doubtfully. Rojer was no fighter. “Want to handle it yurself, why you tellin’ me?”

“I don’t want you to do anything to Jasin,” Rojer said. “But I don’t expect him to be so magnanimous.”

Gared blinked. “Mag-what?”

“Generous,” Rojer supplied. “He might be worried I’m going to do something, and come after me and mine. I’d sleep better if you could spare a few Cutters to keep an eye on his people.”

Gared nodded. “Course. But Rojer …”

“I know, I know,” Rojer said. “Can’t let it fester forever.”

“Stinks already,” Gared said. “Wish the Deliverer were here. He could rip that skunk’s head clean off, and no one would spit.”

Rojer nodded. That had been his plan since he’d first met Arlen Bales.

But the Warded Man was never coming back.

Rojer shifted in his seat. Tension was thick in the air of the count’s council chamber as they waited on Thamos and Jasin. Lord Arther and Captain Gamon were even stiffer than usual, though it was unclear if it was news from Angiers or simply the presence of the royal emissary. Inquisitor Hayes looked as if he’d just bitten a sour apple.