Peter Brett - The Warded Man

“Thank you …” Rojer began, but his voice caught in his throat as he looked up. Masters Jasin and Edum stood before him. Guildsmen.

“Where’s your master, Rojer?” Edum asked sternly. He was a master actor and mummer whose plays were said to draw audience members from as far as Fort Rizon.

Rojer swallowed hard, his face flushing hot. He looked down, hoping they would take his fear and guilt as shame. “I … I don’t know,” he said. “He was supposed to be here.”

“Drunk again, I’ll wager,” Jasin snorted. Also known as Goldentone, a name he was said to have given himself, he was a singer of some note, but more importantly, he was the nephew of Janson, Duke Rhinebeck’s first minister, and made sure the entire world knew it. “Old Sweetsong is pickled sour these days.”

“It’s a wonder he’s kept his license this long,” Edum said. “I heard he soiled himself in the middle of his act last month.”

“That’s not true!” Rojer said.

“I’d be more worried about myself, if I were you, boy,” Jasin said, pointing a long finger in Rojer’s face. “Do you know the penalty for collecting money for an unlicensed performance?”

Rojer paled. Arrick could lose his license over this. If the guild brought the matter to the magistrate as well, they could both find themselves chopping wood with chained ankles.

Edum laughed. “Don’t worry, boy,” he said. “So long as the guild has its cut”—he helped himself to a large portion of the wooden coins Rojer had collected—“I don’t think we need to make further note of this incident.”

Rojer knew better than to protest as the men divided and pocketed over half the take. Little, if any, would actually find its way to the coffers of the Jongleurs’ Guild.

“You’ve got talent, boy,” Jasin said as they turned to go. “You might want to consider a master with better prospects. Come see me if you tire of cleaning up after old Soursong.”

Rojer’s disappointment lasted only until he shook the collection hat. Even half was more than he had ever hoped to make. He hurried back to the inn, pausing only to make a single stop. He made his way to Master Keven, whose face was a thunder-head as the boy approached.

“You’d better not be here to beg for your master, boy,” he said.

Rojer shook his head, handing the man a purse. “My master says there’s enough there for a tenday,” he said.

Keven’s surprise was evident as he hefted the bag and heard the satisfying clack of wooden coins within. He hesitated a moment, then grunted and pocketed the purse with a shrug.

Arrick was still asleep when he returned. Rojer knew his master would never realize the innkeep had been paid. He would avoid the man assiduously, and congratulate himself on making it ten days without paying.

He left the few remaining coins in Arrick’s purse. He would tell his master he had found them loose in the bag of marvels. It was rare for that to happen since money became tight, but Arrick wouldn’t question his fortune once he saw what else Rojer had bought.

Rojer placed the wine bottle by Arrick’s side as he slept.

Arrick was up before Rojer the next morning, checking his makeup in a cracked hand mirror. He wasn’t a young man, but neither was he so old that the tools in a Jongleur’s paintbox couldn’t make him look so. His long, sun-bleached hair was still more gold than gray, and his brown beard, darkened with dye, concealed the growing wattle beneath his chin. The paint matched his tanned skin so closely that the wrinkles around his blue eyes were all but invisible.

“We got lucky last night, m’boy,” he said, contorting his face to see how the paint held, “but we can’t avoid Keven forever. That hairy badger will catch us sooner or later, and when he does, I’d like more than …” He reached into the purse, pulling out the coins and flicking the lot into the air. “… six klats to our name.” His hands moved too fast to follow, snatching the coins out of the air and putting them into a comfortable rhythm in the air above him.

“Have you been at your juggling, boy?” he asked.

Before Rojer could open his mouth to reply, Arrick flicked one of the klats his way. Rojer was wise to the ruse, but ready or not, he felt a stab of fear as he caught the coin in his left hand and tossed it up into the air. More coins followed in rapid succession, and he fought for control as he caught them with his crippled hand and tossed them to the other to be put into the air again.

By the time he had four coins going, he was terrified. When Arrick added a fifth, Rojer had to dance wildly to keep them all moving. Arrick thought better of tossing the sixth and waited patiently instead. Sure enough, Rojer fell to the floor in a clatter of coins a moment later.

Rojer cringed in anticipation of his master’s tirade, but Arrick only sighed deeply. “Put your gloves on,” he said. “We need to go out and fill our purse.”

The sigh cut even deeper than a shout and a cuff on the ear. Anger meant Arrick expected better. A sigh meant his master had given up.

“No,” he said. The word slipped out before he could stop it, but once it hung there in the air between them, Rojer felt the rightness of it, like the fit of the bow in his crippled hand.

Arrick blustered through his mustache, shocked at the boy’s audacity.

“The gloves, I mean,” Rojer clarified, and saw Arrick’s expression change from anger to curiosity. “I don’t want to wear them anymore. I hate them.”

Arrick sighed and uncorked his new bottle of wine, pouring a cup.

“Didn’t we agree,” he said, pointing at Rojer with the bottle, “that people would be less likely to hire you if they knew your infirmity?” he asked.

“We never agreed,” Rojer said. “You just told me to start wearing the gloves one day.”

Arrick chuckled. “Hate to disillusion you, boy, but that’s how it is between masters and apprentices. No one wants a crippled Jongleur.”

“So that’s all I am?” Rojer asked. “A cripple?”

“Of course not,” Arrick said. “I wouldn’t trade you for any apprentice in Angiers. But not everyone will look past your demon scars to see the man within. They will label you with some mocking name, and you’ll find them laughing at you and not with.”

“I don’t care,” Rojer said. “The gloves make me feel like a fraud, and my hand is bad enough without the fake fingers making it clumsier. What does it matter why they laugh, if they come and pay klats to do it?”

Arrick looked at him a long time, tapping his cup. “Let me see the gloves,” he said at last.

They were black, and reached halfway up his forearm. Bright-colored triangles of cloth were sewn to the ends, with bells attached. Rojer tossed them to his master with a frown.

Arrick caught the gloves, looked at them for half a moment, and then tossed them out the window, brushing his hands together as if touching the gloves had left them unclean.

“Grab your boots and let’s go,” he said, tossing back the remains of his cup.

“I don’t really like the boots either,” Rojer dared.

Arrick smiled at the boy. “Don’t push your luck,” he warned with a wink.

Guild law allowed licensed Jongleurs to perform on any street corner, so long as they did not block traffic or hinder commerce. Some vendors even hired them to attract attention to their booths, or the common rooms of taverns.

Arrick’s drinking had alienated most of the latter, so they performed in the street. Arrick was a late sleeper, and the best spots had long since been staked out by other Jongleurs. The space they found wasn’t ideal: a corner on a side street far from the main lanes of traffic.

“It’ll do,” Arrick grunted. “Drum up some business, boy, while I set up.”