Читать книгу The Demon Cycle Books 1-3 and Novellas: The Painted Man, The Desert Spear, The Daylight War plus The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold and Messenger’s Legacy - Peter V. Brett - Страница 59

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The rain increased to a steady pour, and Rojer picked up his pace, cursing his luck. He had been planning to leave Shepherd’s Dale for some time, but hadn’t expected it to be under such hurried and unpleasant circumstances.

He supposed he couldn’t blame the shepherd. True, the man spent more time tending to his flock than his wife, and it was she who made the advance, but coming home early to beat the rain and finding a boy in bed with your wife didn’t tend to put men in a reasoning mood.

In a way, he was thankful for the rain. Without it, the man might well have raised half the men in the Dale to give chase. Dalesmen were a possessive lot; probably because their women were often left alone while they took their precious herds to graze. The shepherds were serious folk, about their herds and about their wives. Interfere with either one …

After a frantic chase around the room, the shepherd’s wife had jumped upon her husband’s back, restraining him long enough for Rojer to snatch up his bags and dart out the door. Rojer’s bags were always packed. Arrick had taught him that.

‘Night,’ he muttered, as his boot sucked into a thick mud puddle. The cold and wet seeped right in through the soft leather, but he dared not stop and try to build a fire just yet.

He drew his motley cloak tighter, wondering why he always seemed to be running from something. Over the last two years, he had moved on almost every season, living in Cricket Run, Woodsend, and Shepherd’s Dale three times each, at least, but he still felt like an outsider. Most villagers went their whole lives without ever leaving their town, and were forever attempting to persuade Rojer to do the same.

Marry me. Marry my daughter. Stay at my inn and we’ll paint your name over the door to attract custom. Keep me warm while my husband’s afield. Help us harvest and stay the winter.

They said it a hundred ways, but they all meant, ‘Give up the road and plant roots here.’

Every time it was said, Rojer found himself on the road. It was nice to be wanted, but as what? A husband? A father? A farmhand? Rojer was a Jongleur, and he could not imagine being anything else. The first time he lifted a finger at harvest or helped chase down a lost sheep he knew he would be starting down a road that would quickly make him otherwise.

He touched the golden-haired talisman in its secret pocket, feeling Arrick’s spirit watching over him. He knew he would feel his master’s disappointment keenly if he ever put his motley aside. Arrick had died a Jongleur, and Rojer would, too.

True to Arrick’s words, the hamlets had sharpened Rojer’s skills. Two years of constant performing had made him into more than just a fiddler and tumbler. Without Arrick to lead, Rojer had been forced to broaden and grow, coming up with innovative ways to entertain alone. He was constantly perfecting some new magic trick or bit of music, but as much as his tricks and fiddling, he had become known for his storytelling.

Everyone in the hamlets loved a good story, especially one that told of faraway places. Rojer obliged, telling of places he’d seen and places he hadn’t, towns that sat over the next hill and ones that existed only in his imagination. The stories grew bigger with every telling, his characters coming alive in people’s minds as they went on their adventures. Jak Scaletongue, who could speak to corelings, and was forever tricking the stupid beasts with false promises. Marko Rover, who crossed the Milnese mountains and found a rich land on the other side where corelings were worshipped like gods. And of course, the Painted Man.

The Duke’s Jongleurs passed through the hamlets to make decrees every spring, and the latest had told tales of a feral man who wandered the wilderness, killing demons and feasting on their flesh. He claimed it was honest word from a tattooist who had put wards on the man’s back, and that others had confirmed the tale. The audience’s attention had been rapt, and when folk had asked Rojer to retell the story another night, he had obliged, adding embellishments all his own.

Listeners loved to ask questions and attempt to catch him in contradiction, but Rojer delighted in the dance of words, keeping the bumpkins convinced of his outlandish tales.

Ironically, the most difficult boast to sell was that he could make the corelings dance with his fiddle. He could have proved it at any time, of course, but as Arrick used to say, ‘The moment you get up to prove one thing, you’ll be expected to prove them all.’

Rojer looked up at the sky. I’ll be playing for the corelings soon enough, he thought. It had been overcast all day, and was getting steadily darker. In the cities where high walls made it so that most people never saw an actual coreling, it was believed to be a tampweed tale that they could rise under dark clouds, but living outside the walls in the hamlets for two years had taught Rojer better. Most would wait until full sunset to rise, but if the clouds grew thick enough, a few bold demons would test the false night.

Cold and wet and in no mood to take the risk, he cast about for a suitable campsite. He’d be lucky to make Woodsend the next day. More likely, he would be two nights on the road. The thought made his stomach churn.

And Woodsend would be no better than the Dale. Or Cricket Run, for that matter. Sooner or later, he would get some woman with child, or worse, fall in love, and before he knew it, he would only be taking his fiddle from its case on festival days. Until he needed to barter it to fix the plough or buy seed, that was. Then he would be just like everyone else.

Or you could go home.

Rojer often thought of returning to Angiers, but was forever coming up with reasons to put it off another season. After all, what did the city have to offer? Narrow streets, choked with people and animals, wooden planks infused with the stench of manure and garbage. Beggars and thieves, and the ever-present worry about money. People who ignored each other as an art.

Normal people, Roger thought, and sighed. Villagers were always seeking to know everything about their neighbours, and opened their homes to strangers without a thought. It was commendable, but Rojer was a city boy at heart.

Returning to Angiers would mean dealing with the guild again. An unlicensed Jongleur’s days were numbered, but a guildsman in good standing’s business was assured. His experience in the hamlets should be enough to win him a licence, especially if he found a guildsman to speak for him. Arrick had alienated most of those, but Rojer might find one to take pity on him upon hearing of his master’s fate.

He found a tree that gave some shelter from the rain, and after setting up his circle, managed to collect enough dry tinder from beneath its boughs to start a small fire. He fed it carefully, but the wind and wet extinguished it before long.

‘Bugger the hamlets,’ Rojer said as the darkness enveloped him, broken only by the occasional flare of magic as a demon tested his wards.

‘Bugger them all.’

Angiers hadn’t changed much since he’d been gone. It seemed smaller, but Rojer had been living in wide open places for some time, and had grown a few inches since he had been there last. He was sixteen now, a man by anyone’s standards. He stood outside the city for some time, staring at the gate and wondering if he was making a mistake.

He had a little coin, sifted carefully from his collection hat over the years and hoarded against his return, and some food in his pack. It wasn’t much, but it would keep him out of the shelters for a few nights at least.

If all I want is a full belly and a roof, I can always go back to the hamlets, he thought. He could head south to Farmer’s Stump and Cutter’s Hollow, or north, to where the Duke had rebuilt Riverbridge on the Angierian side of the river.

If, he told himself again, mustering his courage and walking through the gate.

He found an inn that was cheap enough, and unpacked his best motley, heading back out as soon as he was changed. The Jongleurs’ guildhouse was located near the centre of town, where its residents could easily make engagements in any part of the city. Any licensed Jongleur could live in the house, provided they took the jobs assigned to them without complaint, and paid half their earnings to the guild.

‘Fools,’ Arrick called them. ‘Any Jongleur willing to give half his take for a roof and three communal servings of gruel isn’t worthy of the name.’

It was true enough. Only the oldest and least skilled Jongleurs lived in the house, ready to take the jobs others turned down. Still, it was better than destitution, and safer than public shelters. The wards on the guildhouse were strong, and its residents less apt to rob one another.

Rojer headed for the residences, and a few inquiries soon had him knocking on a particular door.

‘Eh?’ the old man asked, squinting into the hall as he opened his door. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Rojer Halfgrip, sir,’ Rojer said, and seeing no recognition in the rheumy eyes, added, ‘I was apprentice to Arrick Sweetsong.’

The confused look soured in an instant, and the man moved to close the door.

‘Master Jaycob, please,’ Rojer said, placing his hand on the door.

The old man sighed, but made no effort to close the door as he moved back into the small chamber and sat down heavily. Rojer entered, closing the door behind them.

‘What is it you want?’ Jaycob asked. ‘I’m an old man and don’t have time for games.’

‘I need a sponsor to apply for a guild licence,’ 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 licence, 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 licence, 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 coloured 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 coloured 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 ago, 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 licence 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, I suggest he take it up with His Grace.’

Jasin scowled. It was doubtful if 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 licence.’

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!’

Then 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 licence 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 licence,’ 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 licence 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 with 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 punchlines 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.