The Desert Spear (demon)

by Peter V. Brett

  “It seems the Hollow is full of polite giants,” Jizell said. She was by no means short by Angierian standards, but Wonda still towered over her. “Welcome.”

  “Thank you, mistress,” Wonda said.

  Jizell turned last to the Painted Man, still hidden in his hooded robe. “Well, I guess you need no introduction,” she said. “Let’s see, then.”

  The Painted Man’s loose sleeves fell to his elbows as he reached up to draw back his hood. Jizell’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of his tattoos, but she took his hands and squeezed them warmly as she looked into his eyes.

  “Thank you for saving Leesha’s life,” she said. Before he could react, she hugged him tightly. The Painted Man looked at Leesha in surprise, awkwardly returning the embrace.

  “Now, if the rest of you can tend the horses, I’d like a few minutes to speak to Leesha alone,” she said. The others nodded, and Jizell escorted Leesha into the hospit.

  Jizell’s hospit had been home to Leesha for several years, and still held a warm familiarity, but somehow it seemed smaller than it had just a year earlier.

  “Your room is the same as you remember it,” Jizell said, as if reading her thoughts. “Kadie and some of the older girls grumble about it, but as far as I’m concerned, that’s your room until you say otherwise. You can bed there, and we can put the others in spare cots in the patient wards.” She broke into a smile. “Unless you’d like one of the men to share your room.” She gave Leesha a wink.

  Leesha laughed. Jizell hadn’t changed at all, still trying to find Leesha a match. “That’s quite all right.”

  “Seems a waste,” Jizell said. “You told me Gared was handsome, but you shorted him even so, and half the Jongleurs and Tenders in the city whisper that your Painted Man may be the Deliverer himself. Not to mention Rojer, a fine catch by any girl’s standards, and we all know he shines on you.”

  “Rojer and I are just friends, Jizell,” Leesha said, “and the same goes for the others.”

  Jizell shrugged and let the matter drop. “Just good to have you home.”

  Leesha put a hand on her arm. “It’s only for a short time. Deliverer’s Hollow is my home now. The village has swollen into a small city, and they need all the Herb Gatherers they can get. I can’t stay away long; not ever again.”

  Jizell sighed. “Bad enough I lost Vika to the Hollow, but now you, too. If the place is going to keep stealing my apprentices, I might as well sell the hospit and set up shop there.”

  “We could use the extra Gatherers,” Leesha said, “but the town’s got threefold more refugees than we can feed. It’s no place for you and the girls right now.”

  “Or the place we ’re needed most,” Jizell said.

  Leesha shook her head. “I expect you’ll have refugees aplenty in Angiers, before long.”

  CHAPTER 17

  KEEPING UP WITH THE DANCE

  333 AR SPRING

  “OPEN UP, IN THE name of the duke!” a voice barked shortly after dawn. The shouted command was accompanied by a loud pounding on the hospit door, still barred for the night.

  Everyone at the breakfast table froze, looking at the door. The apprentices had long since eaten and were bustling about serving breakfast to the patients, leaving Jizell and the others alone in the kitchen.

  It seemed to Rojer that long minutes passed in stillness, but in truth it could not have been more than seconds before Mistress Jizell looked up at them all.

  “Well,” she said, wiping her mouth and rising to her feet, “I’d best see to that. The rest of you keep your seats and clean your plates. Whatever the duke wants, it’s best you not handle it on an empty stomach.” She straightened her dress and strode out to the door.

  She had not been gone more than a second before Rojer sprang from his seat, putting his back to the wall next to the doorway to listen in.

  “Where is he?!” a man’s deep voice barked when Jizell opened the door. Rojer crouched low and tilted his head to peek around the door frame, revealing little more than his eye and a strand of red hair. A tall, powerfully built man in bright lacquered armor loomed over Mistress Jizell. He had a fine gilded spear strapped across his back, and his breastplate was emblazoned with a wooden soldier. Rojer recognized his strong-jawed face immediately.

  Rojer turned quickly to the others. “Duke Rhinebeck’s brother, Prince Thamos!” he hissed, putting his eye back around the frame.

  “We have many patients, Your Highness,” Jizell said, sounding more bemused than threatened, “you’ll have to be more specific.”

  “Don’t toy with me, woman!” the prince barked, putting a finger in Jizell’s face. “You know well—”

  “Highness, please!” a high male voice cut the prince off. “There’s no need for this!”

  A man appeared, spreading his arms between them to passively ease the prince’s arm and pointing finger away from Jizell’s face. He was in many ways the exact opposite of the prince, small and uncomely, with a bald crown and a pinched face. His lank black hair was long, falling into his high collar, and his thin beard drew to a point at his chin. His wire-framed glasses sat halfway down his long nose, making his eyes seem like two tiny black dots.

  “Lord Janson, the duke’s first minister,” Rojer advised the others.

  Thamos glanced at the minister, who flinched back as if afraid the prince might strike him. The prince glanced at Jizell, then back to the small man, but his stance eased, and after a moment, he nodded. “All right, Janson, it’s your stage.”

  “My apologies for the…urgency, Mistress Jizell,” the first minister said, bowing, “but we wanted to arrive before your…ah, guest had a chance to move on.” He hugged a leather paper case to his chest with one hand and pushed his glasses back up his nose with the other.

  “Guest?” Jizell asked. Prince Thamos growled.

  “Flinn Cutter,” Janson said. Jizell looked at him blankly.

  “The…ah, Painted Man,” Janson said. Jizell’s look became more guarded.

  “He is in no trouble, I assure you,” Janson added quickly. “His Grace the duke simply wishes me to ask a few questions before he decides whether to grant an audience.”

  There was a thump, and Rojer turned from the door to see the Painted Man rise from the table. He nodded to Rojer.

  “It’s all right, mistress,” Rojer said, stepping through the doorway.

  Janson looked over at him, and his nose twitched. “Rojer Inn,” he said more than asked.

  “I’m honored you remember me, Minister,” Rojer said, bowing as the others followed him out of the kitchen.

  “Of course I remember you, Rojer,” Janson said. “How could I forget the boy Arrick brought back with him, sole survivor of the destruction of Riverbridge?” The others looked at Rojer in surprise.

  “Still,” Janson went on, his nose twitching again, “I would swear I read a report last year from Guildmaster Cholls that said you were missing and presumed dead.”

  He looked down his glasses at Rojer. “Leaving a considerable unpaid debt to the Jongleurs’ Guild, as I recall.”

  “Rojer!” Leesha cried.

  Rojer put his Jongleur’s mask in place. The money had been restitution for breaking the nose of Janson’s nephew, Jasin Goldentone. Of course, Jasin had already taken payment in blood.

  “Did you come all this way to discuss the Jongleur?” the Painted Man asked, moving in front of Rojer. His hood cast his face in shadow, giving him a dark countenance frightening even to those who knew him. Prince Thamos put a hand to the short spear strapped to his back.

  Janson twitched nervously, his tiny eyes darting from one man to the other, but he recovered quickly. “Indeed not,” he agreed, turning his attention from Rojer as if he had been doing nothing more significant than examining a ledger. He shifted his feet as if he were ready to run and hide behind the prince if anyone made a sudden move.

  “You’d be…him, then?” he asked.

  The Painted Man pulled back his hood, showi
ng his tattooed face to the prince and minister. Both of their eyes widened at the sight, but they gave no other sign that they had seen anything out of the ordinary.

  Janson bowed deeply. “It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Flinn. Allow me to present Prince Thamos, captain of the Wooden Soldiers, youngest brother to Duke Euchor, and third in line for the ivy throne. His Highness is here as my escort.” He gestured to the prince, who nodded politely, though his eyes lost none of their challenge.

  “Your Highness,” the Painted Man said, bowing smoothly in accordance with Angierian custom. Leesha dropped into a curtsy, and Rojer made his best leg. Rojer knew the Painted Man had met both men before, in his Messenger days, but it was clear that even Janson, whose memory was legendary, did not recognize him.

  Janson turned to his left, where a boy who had been lingering in the doorway appeared. “My son and assistant, Pawl,” he noted. The boy was no more than ten summers old, small like his father, with the same lank black hair and ferretlike face.

  The Painted Man nodded to the boy. “An honor to meet you and your son as well, Lord Janson.”

  “Please, please, just Janson,” the first minister said. “I’m as commonborn as any; just a clerk with a visible post. Forgive me if I seem a bit awkward at this. The duke’s herald, my nephew, usually handles this sort of thing, but as luck would have it, he’s out in the hamlets.”

  “Jasin Goldentone is the duke’s new herald?!” Rojer exclaimed.

  All eyes turned back to him, but Rojer hardly noticed. Jasin Goldentone and his apprentices beat Rojer and his guild sponsor Jaycob a year ago, leaving them for dead as night fell. Rojer had survived only because Leesha and a few brave city guardsmen had risked their lives for him. Master Jaycob had not. Rojer never made charges, however, pretending not to recall his assailants for fear Jasin might use his uncle’s connections to escape punishment and come after him again.

  Janson, however, seemed to know none of this. He looked at Rojer curiously, his eyes flitting to the side, as if checking some forgotten ledger.

  “Ah, yes,” he said after a moment. “Master Arrick and Jasin had something of a rivalry once, didn’t they? I’m sure he won’t be pleased to hear about this.”

  “He won’t hear,” Rojer said. “He was cored on the road to Woodsend three years ago.”

  “Eh?” Janson said, his eyes widening. “I’m sorry to hear it. For all his faults, Arrick was a very good herald and served the duke well, not only for his heroism at Riverbridge. It’s a shame about the brothel incident.”

  “Brothel incident?” Leesha asked, half amused as she turned to Rojer.

  Janson turned bright red, and he turned to Leesha, bowing deeply.

  “Ah…Ah…Forgive me, good woman, for bringing up such indelicate matters in the presence of a lady. I meant no disrespect.”

  “None taken, Minister,” Leesha said. “I’m an Herb Gatherer, and used to indelicate matters. Leesha Paper,” she extended a hand for him to take, “Herb Gatherer to Deliverer’s Hollow.”

  The prince’s nostrils flared and the clerk’s nose twitched again at the new name the people of Cutter’s Hollow had chosen, but Janson only nodded, saying, “I’ve watched your career with some interest since you apprenticed to Mistress Bruna.”

  “Oh?” Leesha said, surprised.

  Janson gave her that same curious look. “It should come as no surprise. I review the duke’s censuses every year, and take special note of prominent citizens in the duchy, especially ones like Bruna, a woman who registered every year since the first census, taken by Rhinebeck the First more than a century ago. I’ve kept watch over all her apprentices, wondering which would inherit her mantle. It was a great loss when she passed last year.”

  Leesha nodded sadly.

  Minister Janson gave a respectful pause for the deceased, then cleared his throat. “While we’re on the subject, Mistress Leesha,” he looked down his glasses and affixed her with the same reproachful stare he had given Rojer, “your annual census report is months late.”

  Leesha blushed as Rojer snickered behind her.

  “I…Ah…We’ve been a bit…”

  “Preoccupied with the flux,” Janson nodded, “and,” he glanced at the Painted Man, “other concerns, of course, I understand. But as I’m sure your father can tell you, mistress, paper makes the engine of state run.”

  “Yes, minister,” Leesha nodded.

  “Please, Janson,” Prince Thamos interposed himself, pushing the first minister to the side. His sharp eyes took in Leesha’s body with a predatory seeming, and Rojer bristled. “The Hollow has been through enough of late. Spare them a moment of your endless paperwork!”

  Janson frowned, but he bowed. “Of course, Highness.”

  “Prince Thamos, at your command,” the prince told Leesha, bowing low and kissing her hand. Rojer scowled as Leesha’s cheeks colored.

  Janson cleared his throat and turned to the Painted Man. “Enough shuffling the papers. Shall we address the duke’s business?”

  When the Painted Man nodded, Janson turned to Jizell. “Mistress, if there were a place we could speak quietly…”

  Jizell nodded, escorting them to her study. “I’ll bring in a fresh pot of tea,” she said, and returned to the kitchen.

  Prince Thamos offered Leesha his arm on the way, and she took it with a bemused look on her face. Gared hovered near them protectively, but if Leesha or the prince took any notice of him, they gave no sign.

  Pawl took his father’s paper case and scurried to Mistress Jizell’s desk, laying out a sheaf of notes and some blank pages. He set a quill and inkwell at the ready with a blotter, then pulled out the chair for his father, who sat and dipped the pen.

  He looked up suddenly. “No one minds, of course, my penning our discussion for the duke?” Janson asked. “I will, of course, strike anything you consider inaccurate or indiscreet.”

  “It’s fine,” the Painted Man said. Janson nodded, looking back to his paper.

  “Well then,” he said. “As I told Mistress Jizell, the duke is eager for an audience with the representatives of…ahem, Deliverer’s Hollow, but he is concerned about the authenticity of that representation. May I ask why Mr. Smitt, the Town Speaker, has not come in person? Is it not the first and only legal duty of the Speaker to represent the town in instances such as these?” As he spoke, his hand was almost a blur, taking down even his own words in an indecipherable shorthand, his quill flicking back to the inkwell every few seconds, with never a drop spilled.

  Leesha snorted. “Anyone who thinks that has never spent any time in the hamlets, minister. The people look to their Speaker in a crisis, and with refugees from Rizon still trickling in, and those already arrived lacking even basic necessities, he couldn’t pull away. He sent me in his stead.”

  “You?” Thamos asked, incredulous. “A woman?”

  Leesha scowled, but Janson cleared his throat loudly before she could retort. “I believe what His Highness means is that proper succession should have had your Tender, Jona, come in Mr. Smitt’s stead.”

  “The Holy House is overflowing with refugees seeking succor,” Leesha said. “Jona could no more come than Smitt.”

  “But the Hollow can spare its Herb Gatherer in this time of need?” Thamos asked.

  “This presents a problem for His Grace,” Janson said, looking up at Leesha even as his hand continued to take down their words. “How would it look at court if he received a delegation from one of his vassalages who did not think enough of the ivy throne to even send their proper Speaker? It would be seen as an insult.”

  “I assure you, no insult was meant,” Leesha said.

  “How not?” Thamos demanded. “Regardless of crisis, your Speaker could have come. Cutter’s Hollow is only six nights hence,” he looked to the Painted Man, “but it appears that this Deliverer’s Hollow has moved farther off.”

  “What would you have me do, Highness?” Leesha asked. “Spend a fortnight fetching Smitt when there’s an army a
t our doorstep?”

  Prince Thamos snorted.

  “Please don’t exaggerate, Miss Paper,” Janson said, still writing. “The royal family knows all about the Krasian raids on Rizon, but the threat to Angierian lands is minimal.”

  “For now,” the Painted Man said. “But those were no simple raids; Fort Rizon and its hamlets, the grain belt of all Thesa, are now under Krasian control. They will dig in for a year at least, levying troops from the Rizonans and training them. Then they will move on to swallow Lakton and its hamlets. It may be years before they turn north and head for your city, but I assure you, they will, and you will need allies if you hope to stand against them.”

  “Fort Angiers isn’t afraid of a handful of desert rats, even if your tampweed tales were true!” Thamos barked.

  “Highness, please!” Janson squeaked. When the prince fell silent again, Janson looked back to the Painted Man. “May I ask how is it you know so much of the Krasians’ plans, Mr. Flinn?”

  “Do you have a copy of the Krasian holy book in your archives, minister?” the Painted Man asked.

  Janson’s eyes flicked away for a moment, as if checking an invisible list. “The Evejah, yes.”

  “I suggest you read it,” the Painted Man said. “The Krasians believe their leader is the reincarnation of Kaji, the Deliverer. They are fighting the Daylight War.”

  “The Daylight War?” Janson asked.

  The Painted Man nodded. “The Evejah details how Kaji conquered the known world before turning its collective spears on the corelings. Jardir will seek to do the same. His advancements may be followed by consolidation periods, where the conquered people are broken to Evejan law,” he fixed Janson and the prince with a hard look, “but don’t let that fool you for a moment into thinking that they’ve ceased their advance.”

  The prince glared defiantly, but the color slowly drained from Janson’s face. Beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead, even in the cool spring morning. “You know much about the Krasian people for a Cutter, Mr. Flinn,” he noted.

  “I spent some time in Fort Krasia,” the Painted Man said simply. Janson made another mark in his strange shorthand.