The Desert Spear (demon)

by Peter V. Brett

  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.

  “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 s
aid. “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.

  SECTION 3

  JUDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 19

  THE KNIFE

  333 AR SUMMER

  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?”

  “I brought you some fish,” Garric said, gesturing to the barrels on the cart. “Good trout and catfish, still alive and swimmin’. Toss some bread in the barrels, and they’ll keep a good while. Reckon it’s been a while since you had fresh fish out here.”

  “That’s real thoughtful,” Harl said, helping Garric unload the cargo.

  “Least I could do,” Garric said. He wiped his sweaty brow when the work was done. “Sun’s hot today. Long trip out and I’m mighty thirsty. Think we might set a spell under the shade of your porch afore I head back?”

  Harl nodded, and the two men went and sat on the old rockers on the porch. Renna fetched a pitcher of cool water and brought it out with a pair of cups.

  Garric reached into his pocket, producing a clay pipe. “Mind if I smoke?”

  Harl shook his head. “Girl, fetch my pipe and leaf pouch,” he said, and shared the pouch with Garric. Renna brought a taper from the fire to light them.

  “Mmm,” Garric said, exhaling slow and thoughtfully. “That’s good leaf.”

  “Grow it myself,” Harl said. “Hog buys most of his smokeleaf from Southwatch, and they always keep the best and sell him the stale dregs.” He turned to Renna. “Girl, fill a pouch for Mr. Fisher to take back with him.”

  Renna nodded and went inside, but she hung by the door, listening. With the formalities done with, the real talk would begin soon, and she didn’t want to miss a word.

  “Sorry it took me so long to come,” Garric began. “Meant no disrespect.”

  “None taken,” Harl said, drawing on his pipe.

  “Whole town’s buzzing about this business between the kids,” Garric said. “Got it from Hog’s daughter, or summat. Goodwives ent got nothin’ better to do with their time than gossip and rumormonger.”

  Harl spat.

  “Want to apologize for my boy’s behavior,” Garric said. “Cobie’s fond o’ tellin’ me he’s a grown man and can handle his own affairs, but grown is as grown does, I say. Wern’t right, what he done.”

  “That’s undersaid,” Harl grunted, and spat again.

  “Well, you ought to know that after you sent him runnin’ home with his tail between his legs, I caught wind and stepped in. I promise you, it won’t happen again.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Harl said. “I were you, I’d beat some sense into that boy.”

  Garric scowled. “I were you, I’d tell my daughter to keep her skirts around her ankles, steada puttin’ sin in the mind of every man passes by.”

  “Oh, I had my words with her,” Harl assured. “She won’t be sinnin’ no more. I put the fear o’ the Creator in her, honest word.”

  “Been more ’n words, it was one of my girls,” Garric said. “I’da caned her backside raw.”

  “You discipline your way, Fisher,” Harl said, “and I’ll do mine.”

  Garric nodded. “Fair and true.” He drew on his pipe. “That sophearted Tender woulda married them, they made it to Boggin’s Hill afore you caught ’em,” he warned.

  Renna gasped, and her heart skipped a beat. She covered her mouth in fright, holding her breath for a long moment until she was sure they hadn’t heard her.

  “Harral’s always been too soft,” Harl said. “A Tender needs to punish wickedness, not condone it.”

  Garric grunted his assent. “Girl ent been sick none?” He made it sound casual, but Renna could tell it was anything but.

  Harl shook his head. “Still go
t her moon blood.”

  Garric blew out a breath, clearly relieved, and suddenly Renna realized why he ’d waited so long to come. Her hand strayed to her stomach, and she wished her womb had quickened, but she ’d only had Cobie’s seed once, and Harl was always careful not to spend in her.

  “No disrespect,” Garric said, “but my lazeabout son’s got prospects for the first time in his life, and Nomi and I aim to find him a proper bride, not some scandal.”

  “Yer son ent got no prospects at all, he puts his hands on my daughter again,” Harl said.

  Garric scowled, but he nodded. “Can’t say I’d think any different, it was one o’ my girls,” He tapped out his pipe. “Reckon we understand each other.”

  “Reckon we do,” Harl said. “Girl! Where’s that leaf?”

  Renna jumped, having forgotten all about the pouch. She ran to the smokeleaf barrel and filled a sheepskin pouch. “Coming!”

  Harl scowled at her when she returned, and gave her a slap on the rump for being slow. He gave the pouch to Garric, and they watched him climb into his cart and trundle off.

  “Do you think it’s true, Mrs. Scratch?” Renna asked the mother cat as she nursed her kits that night. They scrambled over one another in a great pile, fighting for the teats as Mrs. Scratch lay out behind the broken wheelbarrow in the barn where she’d hidden her litter. Renna called her Mrs. Scratch now, like a proper mam, though as expected the tabby that got the kits on her had made scarce since the birth.

  “Do you think the Tender would really marry us if we went to him?” she asked. “Cobie said it was so, and Garric, too. Oh, could you imagine?” Renna picked up one of the kits, kissing its head as it mewed softly at her.

  “Renna Messenger,” she said, trying on the name and smiling. It sounded good. It sounded right.

  “I could make it to Town Square,” she said. “It’s a long way, but I could run it in four hours or so. If I went late in the day, Da could never make it out in time, not with his aching joints.” She glanced over at the cart.

  “’Specially not if he can’t ride,” she added slyly.