The girl smiled, leaping for the candy. Rojer was not a tall man, but even he could keep it from the child’s reach. “Motley!” she cried. “Motley! Motley! Motley!”
Rojer flipped her the candy. Her squeal of glee brought the attention of the other children, looking at him expectantly.
He did not disappoint. More candies were already hidden in his hand. He gave a stage laugh to cover a heavy heart as he spun, nimbly flicking a candy unerringly into the hands of each.
Their families bled for him, and he repaid them in candy.
The new baron shifted uncomfortably at his great goldwood desk. His giant fist made the quill look like a hummingbird feather as he scrawled something approximating a signature to the seemingly endless stack of papers slid before him by Squire Emet, a minor Angierian lordling Thamos had appointed the baron’s secretary.
“Rojer!” Gared cried, rising immediately to his feet as he entered the office.
“My lord,” the secretary began.
“Rojer’s got important business, Emet. Yu’ll have to come back later.” Gared loomed over the secretary, and Emet was wise enough to gather his papers and whisk out of the room.
Gared closed the heavy doors, putting his back to them and blowing out a breath as if he had just escaped a reap of field demons. “Thank the Creator. Ready to throw that whole desk out the window, I had to sign one more paper.”
Rojer’s eyes flicked to the great heavy desk and the window several feet away. If anyone alive could do it, it was Gared Cutter.
Rojer grinned. He always felt safer around Gared. “Always happy to provide an escape from paperwork.”
Gared grinned. “You come by around eleven each morning with a new emergency, I’ll thank you for it. Drink?”
“Night, yes.” Rojer had drained the skin, but wine was slow. Gared had developed a taste for Angierian brandy, and kept a bottle in his office. Rojer moved to the service, pouring two glasses. He was quick, and Gared didn’t notice as he drained one and refilled it before bringing them over.
They clicked glasses and drank. Gared took only a pull, but Rojer shot his, moving to fill a third. “Today it’s not a lie. Got an emergency, sure enough.”
“Ay?” Gared asked. “Sun’s up and nothing’s aflame, so it can’t be too bad. Let’s have a pipe and talk about it, before we’re off to meet the duke’s herald. You think his voice really sounds as good as gold?”
Rojer shot the next glass, filling a fourth before coming to sit on one of the chairs before the great desk. Gared took the other, packing his pipe. Gared Cutter wasn’t one to put a desk between him and anyone else.
Rojer took the offered leaf and packed his own pipe. “You recall how I met Leesha in the hospit?”
“Everyone knows that story,” Gared said. “Start of the tale of how you met the Deliverer.”
Rojer didn’t have the strength to argue. “Remember you asked who put me there?” Gared nodded.
Rojer emptied his glass. “It was the duke’s herald with the golden voice.”
Gared’s face darkened instantly, like a father finding his daughter with a black eye. He balled a meaty fist. “He’ll be lucky if all the Gatherers in the Hollow can stitch him back together when I’m done with him.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Rojer said. “You’re the Baron of Cutter’s Hollow, not the bouncer at Smitt’s.”
“Can’t just let something like that lie,” Gared said.
Rojer looked at him. “Jasin Goldentone is the duke’s herald, the representative of the ivy throne in the Hollow. “Anything you say to him, you are saying to Duke Rhinebeck himself. Anything you do to him, you do to Rhinebeck himself.”
He gave Gared a look that set even the menacing Cutter aback. “Do you have any idea what the duke would do to you—to the Hollow—if you beat his ripping herald to death?”
Gared’s brow furrowed. “So we should get someone else to do it?”
Rojer closed his eyes and counted to ten. “Just let me handle it.”
Gared looked at him doubtfully. Rojer was no fighter. “Want to handle it yurself, why you tellin’ me?”
“I don’t want you to do anything to Jasin,” Rojer said. “But I don’t expect him to be so magnanimous.”
Gared blinked. “Mag-what?”
“Generous,” Rojer supplied. “He might be worried I’m going to do something, and come after me and mine. I’d sleep better if you could spare a few Cutters to keep an eye on his people.”
Gared nodded. “Course. But Rojer …”
“I know, I know,” Rojer said. “Can’t let it fester forever.”
“Stinks already,” Gared said. “Wish the Deliverer were here. He could rip that skunk’s head clean off, and no one would spit.”
Rojer nodded. That had been his plan since he’d first met Arlen Bales.
But the Warded Man was never coming back.
Rojer shifted in his seat. Tension was thick in the air of the count’s council chamber as they waited on Thamos and Jasin. Lord Arther and Captain Gamon were even stiffer than usual, though it was unclear if it was news from Angiers or simply the presence of the royal emissary. Inquisitor Hayes looked as if he’d just bitten a sour apple.
Even Leesha had come out of hiding for the meeting. She hadn’t left her cottage in the fortnight since she’d fainted in her yard. The Gatherers patrolling her bedside had denied even Rojer’s visits. Even now, Darsy guarded her like Evin Cutter’s wolfhound.
It wasn’t hard to see why. Leesha was pale, face puffy and eyes bloodshot. Not one for makeup, the thick powder on her face spoke volumes, as did the tendons stretched like tightropes on her neck.
Was she ill? Leesha might be the most powerful healer in Thesa, but she had more on her shoulders than even Rojer, and she’d been pushing herself hard. She gave Rojer a weak smile, and he threw a bright—if completely false—one back at her.
Beside him, Gared seemed ready to crawl out of his skin. He’d never let any harm come to Rojer, but the big Cutter had a tendency to break things he meant to fix.
Next to the Baron, Erny Paper and Smitt had their heads together in low conversation. It was doubtful they knew half the drama in the room, but the two men could read the tension well enough to know the duke’s herald was not making a social call.
Hary Roller put a light hand on Rojer’s arm. The old Jongleur knew more of Rojer’s history with Jasin than any present, but he had his mask on, and not even Rojer could see his true feelings.
“He won’t start trouble if you don’t start it first.” Hary’s trained voice offered the words for the two of them alone.
“You think he’s had his blood and everything’s sunny now?” Rojer asked.
“Course not,” Hary said. “Secondsong never forgets a slight.”
Secondsong. It was what the other Jongleurs called Jasin Goldentone, back when Arrick Sweetsong had been the duke’s herald. It was said he got more patrons from his uncle Janson’s connections than any gold in his voice.
Privately, at least. No one called Jasin “Secondsong” to his face unless they were ready for a fight. Jasin’s uncle was good for more than bookings. Master Jaycob hadn’t been the first—or the last—time Jasin had gotten away with murder.