Everyone at the breakfast table froze, looking at the door. The apprentices had long since eaten and were bustling about serving breakfast to the patients, leaving Jizell and the others alone in the kitchen.
It seemed to Rojer that long minutes passed in stillness, but in truth it could not have been more than seconds before Mistress Jizell looked up at them all.
“Well,” she said, wiping her mouth and rising to her feet, “I’d best see to that. The rest of you keep your seats and clean your plates. Whatever the duke wants, it’s best you not handle it on an empty stomach.” She straightened her dress and strode out to the door.
She had not been gone more than a second before Rojer sprang from his seat, putting his back to the wall next to the doorway to listen in.
“Where is he?!” a man’s deep voice barked when Jizell opened the door. Rojer crouched low and tilted his head to peek around the door frame, revealing little more than his eye and a strand of red hair. A tall, powerfully built man in bright lacquered armor loomed over Mistress Jizell. He had a fine gilded spear strapped across his back, and his breastplate was emblazoned with a wooden soldier. Rojer recognized his strong-jawed face immediately.
Rojer turned quickly to the others. “Duke Rhinebeck’s brother, Prince Thamos!” he hissed, putting his eye back around the frame.
“We have many patients, Your Highness,” Jizell said, sounding more bemused than threatened, “you’ll have to be more specific.”
“Don’t toy with me, woman!” the prince barked, putting a finger in Jizell’s face. “You know well—”
“Highness, please!” a high male voice cut the prince off. “There’s no need for this!”
A man appeared, spreading his arms between them to passively ease the prince’s arm and pointing finger away from Jizell’s face. He was in many ways the exact opposite of the prince, small and uncomely, with a bald crown and a pinched face. His lank black hair was long, falling into his high collar, and his thin beard drew to a point at his chin. His wire-framed glasses sat halfway down his long nose, making his eyes seem like two tiny black dots.
“Lord Janson, the duke’s first minister,” Rojer advised the others.
Thamos glanced at the minister, who flinched back as if afraid the prince might strike him. The prince glanced at Jizell, then back to the small man, but his stance eased, and after a moment, he nodded. “All right, Janson, it’s your stage.”
“My apologies for the…urgency, Mistress Jizell,” the first minister said, bowing, “but we wanted to arrive before your…ah, guest had a chance to move on.” He hugged a leather paper case to his chest with one hand and pushed his glasses back up his nose with the other.
“Guest?” Jizell asked. Prince Thamos growled.
“Flinn Cutter,” Janson said. Jizell looked at him blankly.
“The…ah, Painted Man,” Janson said. Jizell’s look became more guarded.
“He is in no trouble, I assure you,” Janson added quickly. “His Grace the duke simply wishes me to ask a few questions before he decides whether to grant an audience.”
There was a thump, and Rojer turned from the door to see the Painted Man rise from the table. He nodded to Rojer.
“It’s all right, mistress,” Rojer said, stepping through the doorway.
Janson looked over at him, and his nose twitched. “Rojer Inn,” he said more than asked.
“I’m honored you remember me, Minister,” Rojer said, bowing as the others followed him out of the kitchen.
“Of course I remember you, Rojer,” Janson said. “How could I forget the boy Arrick brought back with him, sole survivor of the destruction of Riverbridge?” The others looked at Rojer in surprise.
“Still,” Janson went on, his nose twitching again, “I would swear I read a report last year from Guildmaster Cholls that said you were missing and presumed dead.”
He looked down his glasses at Rojer. “Leaving a considerable unpaid debt to the Jongleurs’ Guild, as I recall.”
“Rojer!” Leesha cried.
Rojer put his Jongleur’s mask in place. The money had been restitution for breaking the nose of Janson’s nephew, Jasin Goldentone. Of course, Jasin had already taken payment in blood.
“Did you come all this way to discuss the Jongleur?” the Painted Man asked, moving in front of Rojer. His hood cast his face in shadow, giving him a dark countenance frightening even to those who knew him. Prince Thamos put a hand to the short spear strapped to his back.
Janson twitched nervously, his tiny eyes darting from one man to the other, but he recovered quickly. “Indeed not,” he agreed, turning his attention from Rojer as if he had been doing nothing more significant than examining a ledger. He shifted his feet as if he were ready to run and hide behind the prince if anyone made a sudden move.
“You’d be…him, then?” he asked.
The Painted Man pulled back his hood, showing his tattooed face to the prince and minister. Both of their eyes widened at the sight, but they gave no other sign that they had seen anything out of the ordinary.
Janson bowed deeply. “It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Flinn. Allow me to present Prince Thamos, captain of the Wooden Soldiers, youngest brother to Duke Euchor, and third in line for the ivy throne. His Highness is here as my escort.” He gestured to the prince, who nodded politely, though his eyes lost none of their challenge.
“Your Highness,” the Painted Man said, bowing smoothly in accordance with Angierian custom. Leesha dropped into a curtsy, and Rojer made his best leg. Rojer knew the Painted Man had met both men before, in his Messenger days, but it was clear that even Janson, whose memory was legendary, did not recognize him.
Janson turned to his left, where a boy who had been lingering in the doorway appeared. “My son and assistant, Pawl,” he noted. The boy was no more than ten summers old, small like his father, with the same lank black hair and ferretlike face.
The Painted Man nodded to the boy. “An honor to meet you and your son as well, Lord Janson.”
“Please, please, just Janson,” the first minister said. “I’m as commonborn as any; just a clerk with a visible post. Forgive me if I seem a bit awkward at this. The duke’s herald, my nephew, usually handles this sort of thing, but as luck would have it, he’s out in the hamlets.”
“Jasin Goldentone is the duke’s new herald?!” Rojer exclaimed.
All eyes turned back to him, but Rojer hardly noticed. Jasin Goldentone and his apprentices beat Rojer and his guild sponsor Jaycob a year ago, leaving them for dead as night fell. Rojer had survived only because Leesha and a few brave city guardsmen had risked their lives for him. Master Jaycob had not. Rojer never made charges, however, pretending not to recall his assailants for fear Jasin might use his uncle’s connections to escape punishment and come after him again.
Janson, however, seemed to know none of this. He looked at Rojer curiously, his eyes flitting to the side, as if checking some forgotten ledger.
“Ah, yes,” he said after a moment. “Master Arrick and Jasin had something of a rivalry once, didn’t they? I’m sure he won’t be pleased to hear about this.”
“He won’t hear,” Rojer said. “He was cored on the road to Woodsend three years ago.”