The Warded Man

Rojer warmed every crowd for his master, and for a few minutes, he fell into that routine, cartwheeling about and telling jokes, performing magic tricks, and mumming the foibles of well-known authority figures. Laughter. Applause. Slowly, the crowd began to swell. Thirty. Fifty. But more and more began to murmur, impatient for the appearance of Arrick Sweetsong. Rojer’s stomach tightened, and he touched the talisman in its secret pocket for strength.

Staving off the inevitable as long as he could, he called the children forward to tell them the story of the Return. He mummed the parts well, and some nodded in approval, but there was disappointment on many faces. Didn’t Arrick usually sing the tale? Wasn’t that why they came?

“Where is the Sweetsong?” someone called from the back. He was shushed by his neighbors, but his words hung in the air. By the time Rojer had finished with the children, there were general grumbles of discontent.

“I came to hear a song!” the same man called, and this time others nodded in agreement.

Rojer knew better than to oblige. His voice had never been strong, and it cracked whenever he held a note for more than a few breaths. The crowd would turn ugly if he sang.

He turned to the bag of marvels for another option, passing over the juggling balls in shame. He could catch and throw well enough with his crippled right hand, but with no index finger to put the correct spin on the ball and only half a hand to catch with, the complex interplay between both hands when juggling was beyond him.

“What kind of Jongleur can’t sing and can’t juggle?” Arrick would shout sometimes. Not much of one, Rojer knew.

He was better with the knives in the bag, but calling audience members up to stand by the wall while he threw required a special license from the guild. Arrick always chose a buxom girl to assist, who more often than not ended up in his bed after the performance.

“I don’t think he’s coming,” he heard that same man say. Rojer cursed him silently.

Many of the other crowd members were slipping away, as well. A few tossed klats in the hat out of pity, but if Rojer didn’t do something soon, they would never have enough to satisfy Master Keven. His eyes settled on the fiddle case, and he snatched it quickly, seeing that only a few onlookers remained. He pulled out the bow, and as always, there was a rightness in the way it fit his crippled hand. His missing fingers weren’t needed here.

No sooner than he put bow to string, music filled the square. Some of those who were turning away stopped to listen, but Rojer paid them no mind.

Rojer didn’t remember much about his father, but he had a clear memory of Jessum clapping and laughing as Arrick fiddled. When he played, Rojer felt his father’s love, as he did his mother’s when he held his talisman. Safe in that love, he let fear fall away and he lost himself in the vibrating caress of the strings.

Usually he played only an accompaniment to Arrick’s singing, but this time Rojer reached beyond that, letting his music fill the space Sweetsong would have occupied. The fingers of his good left hand were a blur on the frets, and soon the crowd began clapping a tempo for him to weave the music around. He played faster and faster as the tempo grew louder, dancing around the stage in time to the music. When he put his foot on one of the steps on the stage and pushed off into a backflip without missing a note, the crowd roared.

The sound broke his trance, and he saw that the square was filled, with people even crowded outside to hear. It had been some time since even Arrick drew such a crowd! Rojer almost missed a stroke in his shock, and gritted his teeth to hold on to the music until it became his world again.

“That was a good performance,” a voice congratulated as Rojer counted the lacquered wooden coins in the hat. Nearly three hundred klats! Keven would not pester them for a month.

“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.”

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 crowd 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 labeled by the crowd, Arrick had labeled 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 toward 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 center. 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!”

Arrick looked to Rojer, his face a mask of irritation as the crowd began chanting “Halfgrip! Halfgrip!” 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 mustache 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-defense, but that wasn’t how the talk in the apprentice room of the guildhouse told it.