The Warded Man

“I need a sponsor to apply for a guild license,” Rojer said.

Jaycob spat on the floor. “Arrick’s become a dead weight?” he asked. “His drinking slowing down your success, so you’re leaving him to rot and striking out on your own?” He grunted. “Fitting. S’what he did to me, twenty-five years ago.”

He looked up at Rojer. “But fitting or no, if you think I’m to help in your betrayal …”

“Master Jaycob,” Rojer said, holding up his hands to forestall the coming tirade, “Arrick is dead. Cored on the road to Woodsend, two years gone.”

“Keep your back straight, boy,” Jaycob said as they walked down the hall. “Remember to look the guildmaster in the eye, and don’t speak until you’re spoken to.”

He had already said these things a dozen times, but Rojer only nodded. He was young to get his own license, but Jaycob said there had been some in the guild’s history who were younger still. It was talent and skill that would win a license, not years.

It wasn’t easy to get an appointment with the guildmaster, even with a sponsor. Jaycob hadn’t had the strength to perform in years, and while the guildsmen were politely respectful of his advanced years, he was more ignored than venerated in the office wing of the guildhouse.

The guildmaster’s secretary left them waiting outside his office for several hours, watching in despair as other appointments came and went. Rojer sat with his back straight, resisting the urge to shift or slump, as the light from the window slowly crossed the room.

“Guildmaster Cholls will see you now,” the clerk said at last, and Rojer snapped back to attention. He stood quickly, lending Jaycob a hand to help the old man to his feet.

The guildmaster’s office was like nothing Rojer had seen since his time in the duke’s palace. Thick warm carpet covered the floors, patterned and bright, and elaborate oil lamps with colored glass hung from the oak walls between paintings of great battles, beautiful women, and still lifes. His desk was dark polished walnut, with small, intricate statuettes for paperweights, mirroring the larger statues on pedestals throughout the room. Behind the desk was the symbol of the Jongleurs’ Guild, three colored balls, in a large seal on the wall.

“I don’t have a lot of time, Master Jaycob,” Guildmaster Cholls said, not even bothering to look up from the sheaf of papers on his desk. He was a heavy man, fifty summers at least, dressed in the embroidered cloth of a merchant or noble, rather than Jongleur’s motley.

“This one is worth your time,” Jaycob said. “The apprentice of Arrick Sweetsong.”

Cholls looked up at last, if only to glance askew at Jaycob. “Didn’t realize you and Arrick were still in touch,” he said, ignoring Rojer entirely. “Heard you broke on bad terms.”

“The years have a way of softening such things,” Jaycob said stiffly, as close to a lie as he was willing to go. “I’ve made my peace with Arrick.”

“It seems you’re the only one,” Cholls said with a chuckle. “Most of the men in this building would as soon throttle the man as look at him.”

“They’d be a little late,” Jaycob said. “Arrick is dead.”

Cholls sobered at that. “I’m saddened to hear that,” he said. “Every one of us is precious. Was it the drink, in the end?”

Jaycob shook his head. “Corelings.”

The guildmaster scowled, and spat into a brass bucket by his desk that seemed there for no other purpose. “When and where?” he asked.

“Two years, on the road to Woodsend.”

Cholls shook his head sadly. “I recall his apprentice was something of a fiddler,” he said at last, glancing Rojer’s way.

“Indeed,” Jaycob agreed. “That and more. I present to you Rojer Halfgrip.” Rojer bowed.

“Halfgrip?” the guildmaster asked, with sudden interest. “I’ve heard tales of a Halfgrip playing the Western hamlets. That you, boy?”

Rojer’s eyes widened, but he nodded. Arrick had said that reputations carried quickly from the hamlets, but it was still a shock. He wondered if his reputation was good or ill.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Cholls said, as if reading his mind. “Yokels exaggerate.”

Rojer nodded, keeping eye contact with the guildmaster. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Well then, let’s get on with this,” Cholls said. “Show me what you have.”

“Here?” Rojer asked doubtfully. The office was large and private, but with its thick carpets and expensive furniture, it hardly seemed suited to tumbling and knife throwing.

Cholls waved at him impatiently. “You performed with Arrick for years, so I’ll accept that you can juggle and sing,” he said. Rojer swallowed hard. “Earning a license means showing a focus skill beyond those basics.”

“Fiddle him, boy, just like you did me,” Jaycob said confidently. Rojer nodded. His hands shook slightly as he took his fiddle from its case, but when his fingers closed about the smooth wood, the fear washed away like dust in a bath. He began to play, the guildmaster forgotten as he fell into the music.

He played a short while before a shout broke the music’s spell. His bow slipped from the strings, and in the silence that followed, a voice thundered outside the door.

“No, I will not wait for some worthless apprentice to finish his test! Move aside!” There were sounds of a scuffle before the door burst open and Master Jasin stormed into the room.

“I’m sorry, Guildmaster,” the clerk apologized, “he refused to wait.”

Cholls waved the clerk away as Jasin stormed up to him. “You gave the Duke’s Ball to Edum?” he demanded. “That’s been my performance for ten years! My uncle will hear of this!”

Cholls stood his ground, arms crossed. “The duke himself requested the change,” he said. “If your uncle has a problem, suggest he take it up with His Grace.”

Jasin scowled. It was doubtful even First Minister Janson would intercede with the duke over a performance for his nephew.

“If that’s all you came to discuss, Jasin, you’ll have to excuse us,” Cholls went on. “Young Rojer here is testing for his license.”

Jasin’s eyes snapped over to Rojer, flaring with recognition. “I see you’ve ditched the drunk,” he sneered. “Hope you didn’t trade him for this old relic.” He thrust his chin at Jaycob. “The offer stands, you want to work for me. Let Arrick beg for your scraps for a change, eh?”

“Master Arrick was cored on the road two years ago,” Cholls said.

Jasin glanced back at the guildmaster, then laughed out loud. “Fabulous!” he cried. “That news makes up for losing the Duke’s Ball, and to spare!”

Rojer hit him.

He didn’t even realize what he’d done until he was standing over the master, his knuckles tingling and wet. He’d felt the brittle crunch as his fist struck Jasin’s nose, and he knew his chances of winning his license were now gone, but at that moment, he didn’t care.

Jaycob grabbed him and pulled him back as Jasin surged to his feet, swinging wildly.

“I’ll kill you for thad, you little …!”

Cholls was between them in an instant. Jasin thrashed in his grasp, but the guildmaster’s bulk was more than enough to restrain him. “That’s enough, Jasin!” he barked. “You’re not killing anyone!”

“You saw whad he did!” Jasin cried, as blood streamed from his nose.

“And I heard what you said!” Cholls shouted back. “I was tempted to hit you myself!”

“How ab I subbosed to sig tonide?” Jasin demanded. His nose had already begun to swell, and his words became less understandable with every moment.

Cholls scowled. “I’ll get someone to perform in your stead,” he said. “The guild will cover the loss. Daved!” The clerk stuck his head in the door. “Escort Master Jasin to an Herb Gatherer, and have the bill sent here.”

Daved nodded, moving to assist Jasin. The master shoved him away. “Thid idn’t ober,” he promised Rojer as he left.

Cholls blew out a long breath as the door closed. “Well, boy, you’ve gone and done it now. That’s an enemy I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”

“He was already my enemy,” Rojer said. “You heard what he said.”

Cholls nodded. “I did,” he said, “but you still should have restrained yourself. What will you do if a patron insults you next? Or the duke himself? Guildsmen can’t go around punching anyone that angers them.”

Rojer hung his head. “I understand,” he said.

“You’ve just cost me a fair bit of coin, though,” Cholls said. “I’ll be throwing money and prime performances at Jasin for weeks to keep him appeased, and with that fiddling of yours, I’d be a fool not to make you earn it back.”

Rojer looked up hopefully.

“Probationary license,” Cholls said, taking a sheet of paper and a quill. “You’re only to perform under the supervision of a master of the guild, paid from your take, and half of your gross earnings will come to this office until I consider your debt closed. Understood?”

“Absolutely, sir!” Rojer said eagerly.

“And you’ll hold your temper,” Cholls warned, “or I’ll tear up this license and you’ll never perform in Angiers again.”

Rojer worked his fiddle, but out of the corner of his eye he was watching Abrum, Jasin’s burly apprentice. Jasin usually had one of his apprentices watching Rojer’s performances. It made him uneasy, knowing that they were watching him for their master, who meant him only ill, but it had been months since the incident in the guildmaster’s office, and nothing had ever seemed to come of it. Master Jasin had recovered quickly and was soon performing again, raking in accolades at every high-society event in Angiers.

Rojer might have dared to hope the episode was behind them, save that the apprentices came back almost every day. Sometimes it was Abrum the wood demon lurking in a crowd, and others it was Sali the rock demon sipping a drink at the back of a tavern, but however innocuous they might seem, it was no coincidence.

Rojer ended his performance with a flourish, whipping the bow from his fiddle into the air. He took his time to bow, straightening just in time to catch it. The crowd burst into applause, and Rojer’s sharp ears caught the clink of metal coins in the hat as Jaycob moved about the crowd with it. Rojer couldn’t suppress a smile. The old man looked almost spry.

He scanned the dispersing crowd as they collected their equipment, but Abrum had vanished. Still, they packed up quickly and took a roundabout path to their inn to make sure they could not be easily followed. The sun was soon to set, and the streets were emptying rapidly. Winter was on the wane, but the boardwalks still held patches of ice and snow, and few stayed out unless they had business to.

“Even without Cholls’ cut, the rent is paid with days to spare,” Jaycob said, jingling the purse with their take. “When the debt’s paid, you’ll be rich!”

“We’ll be rich,” Rojer corrected, and Jaycob laughed, kicking his heels and slapping Rojer on the back.

“Look at you,” Rojer said, shaking his head. “What happened to the shuffling and half-blind old man that opened his door to me a few months gone?”

“It’s performing again that’s done it,” Jaycob said, giving Rojer a toothless grin. “I know I’m not singing or throwing knives, but even passing the hat has gotten my dusty blood pumping like it hasn’t in twenty years. I feel I could even …” He looked away.

“What?” Rojer asked.

“Just …” Jaycob said, “I don’t know, spin a tale, perhaps? Or play dim while you throw punch lines my way? Nothing to steal your shine …”

“Of course,” Rojer said. “I would have asked, but I felt I was imposing too much already, dragging you all over town to supervise my performances.”

“Boy,” Jaycob said, “I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so happy.”

They were grinning as they turned a corner and walked right into Abrum and Sali. Behind them, Jasin smiled broadly. “It’s good to see you, my friend!” Jasin said, as Abrum clapped Rojer’s shoulder. The wind suddenly exploded from Rojer’s stomach, the punch doubling him over and knocking him to the frozen boardwalk. Before he could rise, Sali delivered a heavy kick to his jaw.

“Leave him alone!” Jaycob cried, throwing himself at Sali. The heavy soprano only laughed, grabbing him and swinging him hard against the wall of a building.

“Oh, there’s plenty for you too, old man!” Jasin said, as Sali landed heavy blows to his body. Rojer could hear the crunch of brittle bone, and the weak, wet gasps that escaped the master’s lips. Only the wall held him upright.

The wooden planks beneath his hands were spinning, but Rojer wrenched himself to his feet, holding his fiddle by the neck with both hands, swinging the makeshift club wildly. “You won’t get away with this!” he cried.

Jasin laughed. “Who will you go to?” he asked. “Will the city magistrates take the obviously false accusations of a petty street performer over the word of the first minister’s nephew? Go to the guard, and it’s you they’ll hang.”

Abrum caught the fiddle easily, twisting Rojer’s arm hard as he drove a knee into his crotch. Rojer felt his arm break even as his groin caught fire, and the fiddle came down hard on the back of his head, shattering as it hammered him to the boardwalk again.

Even through the ringing in his ears, Rojer heard Jaycob’s continued grunts of pain. Abrum stood over him, smiling as he lifted a heavy club.