The Painted Man d-1

by Peter V. Brett

  '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 setup.'

  Rojer nodded and ran off. Whenever he found a likely cluster of people, he cartwheeled by them, or walked by on his hands, the bells sewn into his motley ringing an invitation.

  'Jongleur show!' he cried. 'Come see Arrick Sweetsong perform!'

  Between his acrobatics and the weight still carried by his master's name, he drew a fair bit of attention. Some even followed him on his rounds, clapping and laughing at his antics.

  One man elbowed his wife. 'Look, it's the crippled boy from Small Square!'

  'Are you sure?' she asked.

  'Just look at his hand!' the man said.

  Rojer pretended not to hear, moving on in search of more customers. He soon brought his small following to his master, finding Arrick juggling a butcher knife, a meat cleaver, a hand axe, a small stool, and an arrow in easy rhythm, joking with a growing crowd of his own.

  'And here comes my assistant,' Arrick called to the crowd, 'Rojer Halfgrip!'

  Rojer was already running forward when the name registered. What was Arrick doing?

  It was too late to slow, though, so he put his arms out and flung himself forward, cartwheeling into a triple backflip to stand a few yards from his master. Arrick snatched the butcher knife from the deadly array in the air before him and flicked it Rojer's way.

  Fully expecting the move, Rojer went into a spin, catching the blunt and specially weighted knife easily in his good left hand. As he completed the circuit, he uncoiled and threw, sending the blade spinning right at Arrick's head.

  Arrick, too, went into a spin, and came out of the circuit with the blade held tightly in his teeth. The crowd cheered, and as the blade went back up into rhythm with the other implements, a wave of klats clicked into the hat.

  'Rojer Halfgrip!' Arrick called. 'With only ten years and eight fingers, he's still deadlier with a knife than any grown man!'

  The cloud applauded. Rojer held his crippled hand up for all to see, and the crowd ooohed and aahed over it. Already, Arrick's suggestion had most of them believing he made that catch and throw with his crippled hand. They would tell others, and exaggerate in the telling. Rather than risk Rojer being labelled by the crowd, Arrick had labelled him first.

  'Rojer Halfgrip,' he murmured, tasting the name on his tongue.

  'Hup!' Arrick called, and Rojer turned as his master flung the arrow at him. He slapped his hands together, catching the missile just before it struck his face. He spun again, putting his back to the crowd. With his good hand, he threw the arrow between his legs back towards his master, but when he finished the move and faced the crowd, his crippled right hand was extended. 'Hup!' he called back.

  Arrick feigned fear, dropping the blades he was juggling, but the stool fell into his hands just in time for the arrow to stick in its centre. Arrick studied it as if amazed at his own good fortune. He flicked his wrist as he pulled the arrow free, and it became a bouquet of flowers, which he bestowed on the prettiest woman in the crowd. More coins clattered into the hat.

  Seeing his master moving on to magic, Rojer ran to the bag of marvels for the implements Arrick would need for his tricks. As he did, there came a cry from the crowd.

  'Play your fiddle!' a man called. As he did, there was a general buzz of agreement. Rojer looked up to see the same man who had called so loudly for Sweetsong the day before.

  'In the mood for music are we?' Arrick asked the crowd, not missing a beat. He was answered with a cheer, so Arrick went to the bag and took the fiddle, tucking it under his chin and turning back to the audience. But before he could put bow to string, the man cried out.

  'Not you, the boy!' he bellowed. 'Let Halfgrip play!'

  'Of course,' Arrick said, 'you want the boy to play so I can sing.'

  But the crowd didn't seem to hear, chanting 'Halfgrip! Halfgrip!' Arrick looked to Rojer, his face a mask of irritation. Finally he shrugged, handing his apprentice the instrument.

  Rojer took the fiddle with shaking hands. 'Never upstage your master' was a rule apprentices learned early. But the crowd was calling for him to play, and again, the bow felt so right in his crippled hand, free of the cursed glove. He closed his eyes, feeling the stillness of the strings under his fingertips, and then brought them to a low hum. The crowd quieted as he played softly for a few moments, stroking the strings like the back of a cat, making it purr.

  The fiddle came alive in his hands, then, and he led it out like a partner in a reel, sweeping it into a whirlwind of music. He forgot the crowd. He forgot Arrick. Alone with his music, he explored new harmonies even as he maintained a constant melody, improvising in time to the tempo of clapping that seemed a world removed.

  He had no idea how long it went on. He could have stayed in that world forever, but there was a sharp twang, and something stung his hand. He shook his head to clear it and looked up at the wide-eyed and silent crowd.

  'String broke,' he said sheepishly. He glanced at his master, who stood in the same shock as the other onlookers. Arrick raised his hands slowly and began to clap.

  The crowd followed soon after, and it was thunderous.

  'You're going to make us rich with that fiddling, boy,' Arrick said, counting their take. 'Rich!'

  'Rich enough to pay the back dues you owe the Guild?' a voice asked.

  They turned to see Master Jasin leaning against the wall. His two apprentices, Sali and Abrum, stood close by. Sali sang soprano with a clear voice as beautiful as she was ugly. Arrick sometimes joked that if she wore a horned helmet, audiences would mistake her for a rock demon. Abrum sang bass, his voice a deep thrum that made the planked streets vibrate. He was tall and lean, with gigantic hands and feet. If Sali was a rock demon, he was surely a wood.

  Like Arrick, Master Jasin was an alto, his voice rich and pure. He wore expensive clothes of fine blue wool and gold thread,

  spurning the motley that most of his profession wore. His long black hair and moustache were oiled and meticulously groomed.

  Jasin was a man of average size, but that made him no less dangerous. He had once stabbed a Jongleur in the eye during an argument over a particular corner. The magistrate ruled it self defence, but that wasn't how the talk in the apprentice room of the guildhouse told it.

  Jasin's uncle Janson was First Minister of Angiers. In the palace, his voice was second only to the duke's. On the streets, it was an open secret that a percentage of every thief and cutpurse's take made its way up to him.

  'The payment of my guild dues is no concern of yours, Jasin,' Arrick said, quickly dumping the coins in the bag of marvels.

  'Your apprentice may have talked your way out of missing that performance yesterday, Soursong, but his fiddle can't succour you forever.' As he spoke, Abrum snatched Rojer's fiddle from his hands and broke it over his knee. 'Sooner or later, the Guild will have your license.'

  'The Guild would never give up Arrick Sweetsong,' Arrick said, 'but even if they did, Jasin would still be known as 'Secondsong'.'

  Jasin scowled, for many in the Guild already used that name, and the master was known to fly into rages at its utterance. He and Sali advanced on Arrick, who held the bag protectively. Abrum backed Rojer against a wall, keeping him from going to his master's aid.

/>   But this wasn't the first time they had needed to fight to defend their take. Rojer dropped straight down on his back, coiling like a spring and kicking straight up. Abrum screamed, his normally deep voice taking on a different pitch.

  'I thought your apprentice was a bass, not a soprano,' Arrick said. When Jasin and Sali spared a glance to their companion, his quick hands darted into the bag of marvels, sending a fistful of wingseeds spinning in the air before them.

  Jasin lunged through the cloud, but Arrick sidestepped and tripped him easily, bringing the bag around in a hard swing at Sali, hitting the bulky woman full in the chest. She might have kept her feet, but Rojer was in position, kneeling behind her. She fell hard, and before the three could recover, Arrick and Rojer ran off down the boardwalk.

  16

  Attachments

  323-325 AR

  The roof of the Duke's Library in Miln was a magical place for Arlen. On a clear day, the world spread out below him, a world unrestrained by walls and wards, stretching on into infinity. It was also the place where Arlen first looked at Mery, and truly saw her.

  His work in the library was nearly complete, and he would soon be returning to Cob's shop. He watched the sun play over the snow capped mountains and fall on the valley below, trying to memorize the sight forever, and when he turned to Mery, he wanted to do the same for her. She was fifteen, and more beautiful by far than mountains and snow.

  Mery had been his closest friend for over a year, but Arlen had never thought more of her than that. Now, seeing her limned in golden sunlight, cold mountain wind blowing the long brown hair from her face as she hugged her arms against the swell of her bosom to ward off the chill, she was suddenly a young woman, and he a young man. His pulse quickened at the way her skirts flared in the breeze, edges of lace hinting of petticoats beneath.

  He said nothing as he stepped forward, but she caught the look in his eyes, and smiled. 'It's about time,' she said.

  He reached out, tentatively, and traced the back of his hand down her cheek. She leaned in to the touch, and he tasted her sweet breath, kissing her. It was soft at first, hesitant, but it deepened as she responded, becoming something with a life of its own, something hungry and passionate, something that had been building inside him for over a year without his knowing.

  Some time later, their lips parted with a soft pop, and they smiled nervously. Arms around one another, they looked out over Miln, sharing in the glow of young love.

  'What do you want from life, Arlen?' Mery asked. 'What do you dream?'

  Arlen was quiet for some time. 'I dream of freeing the world from the corelings,' he said.

  Her thoughts having gone another way, Mery laughed at the unexpected response. She did not mean to be cruel, but the sound cut at him like a lash. 'You think yourself the Deliverer, then?' she asked. 'How will you do this?'

  Arlen drew away from her a little, feeling suddenly vulnerable, i don't know,' he admitted. 'I'll start by Messaging. I've already saved enough money for armour and a horse.'

  Mery shook her head. 'That will never do, if we're to marry,' she said.

  'We're to marry?' Arlen asked in surprise, amazed at the tightness in his throat.

  'What, am I not good enough?' Mery asked, pulling away and looking indignant.

  'No! I never said…' Arlen stuttered.

  'Well, then,' she said. 'Messaging may bring money and honour, but it's too dangerous, especially once we have children.'

  'We're having children now?' Arlen squeaked.

  Mery looked at him as if he were an idiot. She went on, ignoring him as she thought things through. 'No, it will never do.

  You'll need to be a Warder, like Cob. You'll still get to fight demons, but you'll be safe with me instead of riding down some coreling-infested road.'

  'I don't want to be a Warder,' Arlen said. 'It was never more than a means to an end.'

  'What end?' Mery asked. 'Lying dead on the road?'

  'No,' Arlen said. 'That won't happen to me.'

  'What will you gain as a Messenger that you can't as a Warder?'

  'Escape,' Arlen said without thinking.

  Mery fell silent. She turned her head to avoid his eyes, and after a few moments, slipped her arm from his. She sat quietly, and Arlen found sadness only made her more beautiful still.

  'Escape from what?' she asked at last. 'From me?'

  Arlen looked at her, drawn in ways he was only just beginning to understand, and his throat caught. Would it be so bad to stay? What were the chances of finding another like Mery?

  But was that enough? He'd never wanted family. They were attachments he did not need. Arlen called to mind the image that had sustained him for the last three years, seeing himself riding down the road, free to roam. As always, the thought swelled him, until he turned to look again at Mery. The fantasy fled, and all he could think about was kissing her again.

  'Not you,' he said, taking her hands. 'Never you.' Their lips met again, and for a time, his thoughts touched on nothing else.

  'I have assignment to Harden's Grove,' Ragen said, referring to a small farming hamlet a full day's ride from Fort Miln. 'Would you care to join me, Arlen?' 'Ragen, no!' Elissa cried.

  Arlen glared, but Ragen grabbed his arm before he could speak. 'Arlen, may I have a moment alone with my wife?' he asked gently. Arlen wiped his mouth and excused himself.

  Ragen closed the door after him, but Arlen refused to let his fate be decided out of his hands, and circled around through the kitchen, listening at the servant's entrance. The cook looked at him, but Arlen looked right back, and the man kept to his own business.

  'He's too young!' Elissa was saying.

  'Lissa, he'll always be too young for you,' Ragen said. 'Arlen is sixteen, and he's old enough to make a simple day trip.'

  'You're encouraging him!'

  'You know foil well Arlen needs no encouragement from me,' Ragen said.

  'Enabling him, then,' Elissa snapped. 'He's safer here!'

  'He'll be safe enough with me,' Ragen said. 'Isn't it better that he makes his first few trips with someone to supervise him?'

  'I'd rather he not make his first few trips at all,' Elissa said acidly. 'If you cared about him, you'd feel the same.'

  'Night, Lissa, it's not like we'll even see a demon. We'll reach the grove before sunset and leave after sunrise. Regular folk make the trip all the time.'

  'I don't care,' Elissa said. 'I don't want him going.'

  'It's not your choice,' Ragen reminded.

  'I forbid it!' Elissa shouted.

  'You can't!' Ragen shouted back. Arlen had never heard him raise his voice to her.

  'Just you watch me,' Elissa snarled. 'I'll drug your horses! I'll chop every spear in two! I'll throw your armour in the well to rust!'

  'Take away every tool you want,' Ragen said through gritted teeth, 'and Arlen and I will still leave for Harden's Grove tomorrow, on foot, if need be.'

  'I'll leave you,' Elissa said quietly.

  'What?'

  'You heard me,' she said. 'Take Arlen out of here, and I'll be gone before you get back.'

  'You can't be serious,' Ragen said.

  'I've never been more serious in my life,' Elissa said. 'Take him and I go.'

  Ragen was quiet a long time. 'Look, Lissa,' he said finally. 'I know how upset you've been that you haven't gotten pregnant…'

  'Don't you dare bring that into this!' Elissa growled.

  'Arlen is not your son!' Ragen shouted. 'No amount of smothering will ever make it so! He is our guest, not our child!'

  'Of course he's not our child!' Elissa shouted. 'How could he be when you're out delivering ripping letters whenever I cycle?'

  'You knew what I was when you married me,' Ragen reminded her.

  'I know,' Elissa replied, 'and I'm realizing that I should have listened to my mother.'

  'What's that supposed to mean?' Ragen demanded.

  'It means I can't do this anymore,' Elissa said, starting to cry. 'The
constant waiting, wondering if you'll ever come home; the scars you claim are nothing. The praying that the scant few times we make love will conceive before I'm too old. And now, this!

  'I knew what you were when we married,' she sobbed, 'and I thought I had learned to handle it. But this…Ragen, I just can't bear the thought of losing you both. I can't!'

  A hand rested on Arlen's shoulder, giving him a start. Margrit stood there, a stern look on her face. 'You shouldn't be listening to this,' she said, and Arlen felt ashamed for his spying. He was about to leave when he caught the Messenger's words.

  'All right,' Ragen said. 'I'll tell Arlen he can't come, and stop encouraging him.'

  'Really?' Elissa sniffled.

  'I promise,' Ragen said. 'And when I get back from Harden's Grove,' he added, 'I'll take a few months off and keep you so fertilized that something can't help but grow.'

  'Oh, Ragen!' Elissa laughed, and Arlen heard her fall into his arms.

  'You're right,' Arlen told Margrit. 'I had no right to listen to that.' He swallowed the angry lump in his throat. 'But they had no right to discuss it in the first place.'

  He went up to his room and began packing his things. Better to sleep on a hard pallet in Cob's shop than in a soft bed that came at the cost of his right to make his own decisions.

  For months, Arlen avoided Ragen and Elissa. They stopped by Cob's shop often to see him, but he was not to be found. They sent servants to make overtures, but the results were the same.

  Without use of Ragen's stable, Arlen bought his own horse and practiced riding in the fields outside the city. Mery and Jaik often accompanied him, the three of them growing closer. Mery frowned upon the practice, but they were all still young, and the simple joy of galloping a horse about the fields drove other feelings away.

  Arlen worked with increasing autonomy in Cob's shop, taking calls and new customers unsupervised. His name became known in warding circles, and Cob's profits grew. He hired servants and took on more apprentices, leaving the bulk of their training to Arlen.

  Most evenings, Arlen and Mery walked together, taking in the colours of the sky. Their kisses grew hungrier, both wanting more, but Mery always pulled away before it went too far.