The Warded Man (46 page)

“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.

“AY, JIZELL!” Skot cried as the old Herb Gatherer came to him with her bowl. “Why not let your apprentice take the task for once?” He nodded at Leesha, changing another man’s dressing.

“Ha!” Jizell barked. She was a heavyset woman, with short gray hair and a voice that carried. “If I let her give the rag baths, I’d have half of Angiers crying plague within a week.”

Leesha shook her head as the others in the room laughed, but she was smiling as she did. Skot was harmless. He was a Messenger whose horse had thrown him on the road. Lucky to be alive, especially with two broken arms, he had somehow managed to track down his horse and get back in the saddle. He had no wife to care for him, and so the Messengers’ Guild had produced the klats to put him up in Jizell’s hospit until he could do for himself.

Jizell soaked her rag in the warm, soapy bowl and lifted the man’s sheet, her hand moving with firm efficiency. The Messenger gave a yelp as she was finishing up, and Jizell laughed. “Just as well I give the baths,” she said loudly, glancing down. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint poor Leesha.”

The others in their beds all had a laugh at the man’s expense. It was a full room, and all were a little bed-bored.

“I think she’d likely find it in different form than you,” Skot grumbled, blushing furiously, but Jizell only laughed again.

“Poor Skot has a shine on you,” Jizell told Leesha later, when they were in the pharmacy grinding herbs.

“A shine?” laughed Kadie, one of the younger apprentices. “He’s not shining, he’s in loooove!” The other apprentices in earshot burst into giggles.

“I think he’s cute,” Roni volunteered.

“You think everyone is cute,” Leesha said. Roni was just flowering, and boy-crazed. “But I hope you have better taste than to fall for a man that begs you for a rag bath.”

“Don’t give her ideas,” Jizell said. “Roni had her way, she’d be rag-bathing every man in the hospit.” The girls all giggled, and even Roni didn’t disagree.

“At least have the decency to blush,” Leesha told her, and the girls tittered again.

“Enough! Off with you giggleboxes!” Jizell laughed. “I want a word with Leesha.”

“Most every man that comes in here shines on you,” Jizell said when they were gone. “It wouldn’t kill you to talk to one apart from asking after his health.”

“You sound like my mum,” Leesha said.

Jizell slammed her pestle down on the counter. “I sound like no such thing,” she said, having heard all about Elona over the years. “I just don’t want you to die an old maid to spite her. There’s no crime in liking men.”

“I like men,” Leesha protested.

“Not that I’ve seen,” Jizell said.

“So I should have jumped to offer Skot a rag bath?” Leesha asked.

“Certainly not,” Jizell said. “At least, not in front of everyone,” she added with a wink.

“Now you sound like Bruna,” Leesha groaned. “It will take more than crude comments to win my heart.” Requests like Skot’s were nothing new to Leesha. She had her mother’s body, and that meant a great deal of male attention, whether she invited it or not.

“Then what does it take?” Jizell asked. “What man could pass your heart wards?”

“A man I can trust,” Leesha said. “One I can kiss on the cheek without him bragging to his friends the next day that he stuck me behind the barn.”

Jizell snorted. “You’ll sooner find a friendly coreling,” she said.

Leesha shrugged.

“I think you’re scared,” Jizell accused. “You’ve waited so long to lose your flower that you’ve taken a simple, natural thing every girl does and built it up into some unscalable wall.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Leesha said.

“Is it?” Jizell asked. “I’ve seen you when ladies come asking your advice on bed matters, grasping and guessing as you blush furiously. How can you advise others about their bodies when you don’t even know your own?”

“I’m quite sure I know what goes where,” Leesha said wryly.

“You know what I mean,” Jizell said.

“What do you suggest I do about it?” Leesha demanded. “Pick some man at random, just to get it over with?”

“If that’s what it takes,” Jizell said.

Leesha glared at her, but Jizell met the gaze and didn’t flinch. “You’ve guarded that flower so long that no man will ever be worthy to take it in your eyes,” she said. “What good is a flower hidden away for no one to see? Who will remember its beauty when it wilts?”

Leesha let out a choked sob, and Jizell was there in an instant, holding her tightly as she cried. “There, there, poppet,” she soothed, stroking Leesha’s hair, “it’s not as bad as all that.”

After supper, when the wards were checked and the apprentices sent to their studies, Leesha and Jizell finally had time to brew a pot of herb tea and open the satchel from the morning Messenger. A lamp sat on the table, full and trimmed for long use.

“Patients all day and letters all night,” Jizell sighed. “Thank light Herb Gatherers don’t need sleep, eh?” She upended the bag, spilling parchment all over the table.

They quickly separated out correspondence meant for the patients, and then Jizell grabbed a bundle at random, glancing at the hail. “These are yours,” she said, passing the bundle to Leesha and snatching another letter off the pile, which she opened and began to read.

“This one’s from Kimber,” she said after a moment. Kimber was another of Jizell’s apprentices sent abroad, this one to Farmer’s Stump, a day’s ride south. “The cooper’s rash has gotten worse, and spread again.”

“She’s brewing the tea wrong; I just know it,” Leesha groaned. “She never lets it steep long enough, and then wonders at her weak cures. If I have to go to Farmer’s Stump and brew it for her, I’ll give her such a thumping!”

“She knows it,” Jizell laughed. “That’s why she wrote to me this time!”

The laughter was infectious, and Leesha soon joined in. Leesha loved Jizell. She could be as hard as Bruna when the occasion demanded, but she was always quick to laugh.

Leesha missed Bruna dearly, and the thought turned her back to the bundle. It was Fourthday, when the weekly Messenger arrived from Farmer’s Stump, Cutter’s Hollow, and points south. Sure enough, the hail of the first letter in the stack was in her father’s neat script.

There was a letter from Vika, as well, and Leesha read that one first, her hands clenching as always until she was assured that Bruna, older than ancient, was still well.

“Vika’s given birth,” she noted. “A boy, Jame. Six pounds eleven ounces.”

“Is that the third?” Jizell asked.

“Fourth,” Leesha said. Vika had married Child Jona—Tender Jona, now—not long after arriving in Cutter’s Hollow, and wasted no time in bearing him children.

“Not much chance of her coming back to Angiers, then,” Jizell lamented.

Leesha laughed. “I thought that was given after the first,” she said.

It was hard to believe seven years had passed since she and Vika exchanged places. The temporary arrangement was proving permanent, which didn’t entirely displease Leesha.

Regardless of what Leesha did, Vika would stay in Cutter’s Hollow, and seemed better liked there than Bruna, Leesha, and Darsy combined. The thought gave Leesha a sense of freedom she never dreamt existed. She’d promised to return one day to ensure the Hollow had the Gatherer it needed, but the Creator had seen to that for her. Her future was hers to choose.

Her father wrote that he had caught a chill, but Vika was tending him, and he expected to recover quickly. The next letter was from Mairy; her eldest daughter already flowered and promised, Mairy would likely be a grandmother soon. Leesha sighed.

There were two more letters in the bundle. Leesha corresponded with Mairy, Vika, and her father almost every week, but her mother wrote less often, and oftentimes in a fit of pique.

“All well?” Jizell asked, glancing up from her own reading to see Leesha’s scowl.

“Just my mum,” Leesha said, reading. “The tone changes with her humors, but the message stays the same: ‘Come home and have children before you grow too old and the Creator takes the chance from you.’” Jizell grunted and shook her head.

Tucked in with Elona’s letter was another sheet, supposedly from Gared, though the missive was in her mother’s hand, for Gared knew no letters. But whatever pains she took to make it seem dictated, Leesha was sure at least half the words were her mother’s alone, and most likely the other half as well. The content, as with her mother’s letters, never changed. Gared was well. Gared missed her. Gared was waiting for her. Gared loved her.

“My mother must think me very stupid,” Leesha said wryly as she read, “to believe Gared would ever even attempt a poem, much less one that didn’t rhyme.”

Jizell laughed, but it died prematurely when she saw that Leesha had not joined her.

“What if she’s right?” Leesha asked suddenly. “Dark as it is to think Elona right about anything, I do want children one day, and you don’t need to be an Herb Gatherer to know that my days to do it are fewer ahead than behind. You said yourself I’ve wasted my best years.”

“That was hardly what I said,” Jizell replied.

“It’s true enough,” Leesha said sadly. “I’ve never bothered to look for men; they always had a way of finding me whether I wanted it or not. I just always thought one day I’d be found by one that fit into my life, rather than expecting me to fit into his.”

“We all dream that sometimes, dear,” Jizell said, “and it’s a nice enough fantasy once in a while, when you’re staring at the wall, but you can’t hang your hopes on it.”

Leesha squeezed the letter in her hand, crumpling it a bit.

“So you’re thinking of going back and marrying this Gared?” Jizell asked.

“Oh, Creator, no!” Leesha cried. “Of course not!”

Jizell grunted. “Good. You’ve saved me the trouble of thumping you on the head.”

“Much as my belly longs for a child,” Leesha said, “I’ll die a maid before I let Gared give me one. Problem is, he’d have at any other man in the Hollow that tried.”

“Easily solved,” Jizell said. “Have children here.”

“What?” Leesha asked.

“Cutter’s Hollow is in good hands with Vika,” Jizell said. “I trained the girl myself, and her heart is there now in any event.” She leaned in, putting a meaty hand atop Leesha’s. “Stay,” she said. “Make Angiers your home and take over the hospit when I retire.”

Leesha’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“You’ve taught me as much as I’ve taught you these years,” Jizell went on. “There’s no one else I trust to run my business, even if Vika returned tomorrow.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Leesha managed.

“No rush to say anything,” Jizell said, patting Leesha’s hand. “I daresay I don’t plan to retire any day soon. Just think on it.”

Leesha nodded. Jizell opened her arms, and she fell into them, embracing the older woman tightly. As they parted, a shout from outside made them jump.

“Help! Help!” someone cried. They both glanced at the window. It was past dark.

Opening one’s shutters at night in Angiers was a crime punishable by whipping, but Leesha and Jizell gave it no thought as they threw open the bar, seeing a trio of city guardsmen running down the boardwalk, two of them each carrying another man.

“Ay, the hospit!” the lead guard called, seeing the shutters open on the lamplit room. “Open your doors! Succor! Succor and healing!”

As one, Leesha and Jizell bolted for the stairs, nearly tumbling down in their haste to get to the door. It was winter, and though the city’s Warders worked diligently to keep the wardnet clear of snow, ice, and dead leaves, a few wind demons invariably found their way in each night, hunting homeless beggars and waiting for the occasional fool that dared defy curfew and the law. A wind demon could drop like a silent stone and then spread its taloned wings in a sudden snap, eviscerating a victim before grasping the body in its rear claws and swooping away with it.

They made it to the landing and threw open the door, watching as the men approached. The lintels were warded; they and their patients were safe enough even without the door.

“What’s happening?” Kadie cried, sticking her head out over the balcony at the top of the stairs. Behind her, the other apprentices were pouring out of their room.

“Put your aprons back on and get down here!” Leesha ordered, and the younger girls scrambled to obey.

The men were still a ways off, but running hard. Leesha’s stomach clenched as she heard shrieks in the sky. There were wind demons about, drawn to the light and commotion.

But the guards were closing the distance fast, and Leesha dared to hope that they would make it unscathed until one of the men slipped on a patch of ice and went down hard. He screamed, and the man he was carrying tumbled to the boardwalk.

The guard still with a man over his shoulder shouted something to the other, and put his head down, picking up speed. The unburdened man turned and rushed back to his fallen comrade.

A sudden flap of leathery wings was the only warning before the head of the hapless guard flew free of his body, rolling across the boardwalk. Kadie screamed. Before blood even began to spurt from the wound, the wind demon gave a shriek and launched skyward, hauling the dead man’s body into the air.