The names of those who had had died protecting Rojer. Five names. Five lives, cut short for his. How many was his miserable existence worth?
He pretended to fiddle with his laces for the excuse to touch the medal. For an instant, his fingers brushed the cool metal and a wave of comfort flowed through him, driving away the gripping anxiety. Whatever his brain told him, his heart knew no harm could come to him while he was touching it.
It was a fool’s belief, but Rojer was a fool by trade, so that worked out.
Sikvah pulled his hands away like a mother dressing a toddler, fixing the laces herself. Anxiety clenched him again, and he moved his hand back instinctively. Sikvah delivered a sharp slap to the back of his hand. It stung for a moment, then fell away, numb as she jerked the shirt straight.
Rojer jumped back in surprise. “Sikvah!”
Sikvah’s eyes widened, and she dropped smoothly to her knees, hands on the ground. “I apologize for striking you, honored husband. If you wish to whip me, it is your right …”
Rojer was stunned. “No, I …”
Sikvah bobbed. “Of course. I will inform the dama’ting to issue my penance …”
“No one’s whipping anyone!” Rojer snapped. “What is it with you people? Just forget it and find me another shirt. Something with buttons.”
The moment she turned her back, Rojer’s hand darted to the medallion, clutching as if his life depended on it.
His talisman was one of the few secrets he still held from his wives. They knew the names, his mother and father, their family friend the Messenger, and the two Jongleurs he had apprenticed under. Honored dead.
But the stories behind them, the tales of murder, betrayal, and stupidity, these he kept secret.
Sikvah brought the new shirt, a voluminous affair with heavy lace cravat. It was more ostentatious than the occasion merited, but perfect to put a fog over his chest, that he might easily stroke his medallion without drawing attention.
Had she done it on purpose? When Sikvah left the third button from the top undone, Rojer knew she understood, and his heart ached.
Everyone he had ever loved in his life had died and left him alone, but what if the debt was still not paid in full? Would it be Sikvah to die for him next? Amanvah? Kendall? He couldn’t bear the thought.
He realized he was clutching the medallion in a grip so hard it hurt. How long since he had done that? Months. After the attack at new moon, very little frightened him anymore.
But he was frightened now. Thamos had been cold since Rojer refused to take commission as royal herald of Hollow County. He would not be moved to turn on his brother’s herald over a tale of some murdered street performer.
Worse, Jasin might well have arrived with an arrest warrant, for him or his wives. The daughter and niece of the Krasian leader would be valuable hostages, especially now that the Krasians had invaded Lakton.
An accusation against Jasin now might get Rojer nothing but the Herald’s ire, and Rojer knew well how Jasin Goldentone dealt with ire. He embraced it, stroked it, nourished it.
And then, when you thought he must surely have forgotten, it was knives on a darkened street.
Rojer choked, his next breaths came out in a fit of coughing.
“Husband, are you well?” Sikvah asked. “I will inform the dama’ting …”
“I’m fine!” Rojer pulled away, straightening his cravat. The medallion pulled at him, but he ignored the need, reaching for his fiddle and cloak. “Just need a sip of wine.”
“Water would be best.” Sikvah moved to fill a cup. His jiwah no longer tried to stop him drinking alcohol, but neither did they approve.
“Wine,” Rojer said again. Sikvah bowed and fetched the proper skin. He ignored the cup she offered, taking the skin whole and heading for the door.
“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.”