The Desert Spear

  Ragen’s voice came to him, as it always did when meeting a duke. Merchants and Royals will walk all over you if you let them. You need to act like a king in their presence, and never forget who it is risking their life.

  With that in mind, he squared his shoulders and strode forward. “Greetings, Your Grace,” he called without waiting to be addressed. His robes whipped out as he sketched a graceful bow. There was a murmur from some at his audacity, but Euchor acted as if he did not notice.

  “Welcome to Miln,” the duke said. “We have heard much about you. I confess I was one of many who thought you a myth. Pray, indulge me.” He mimed removing a hood.

  The Painted Man nodded and removed his hood, drawing gasps from around the room. Even Ragen managed to look suitably awed.

  He waited, letting them all have a good look. “Impressive,” Euchor said. “The tales do not do justice.” As he spoke, Ragen’s Warders went to work, dipping their pens to copy every symbol they saw while trying to seem inconspicuous.

  This time it was Cob’s voice in his mind. Fort Miln isn’t like Tibbet’s Brook, boy. Here, things cost money. He didn’t think they would get much—the multitude of symbols were too small and close together—but he pulled his hood up casually, his eyes never leaving the duke’s. The message was clear. His secrets would not come free.

  Euchor glanced at the Warders and scowled at their lack of subtlety.

  “I bring message from Duke Rhinebeck of Angiers,” the Painted Man said, producing his sealed parcel.

  The duke ignored him. “Who are you?” he asked bluntly. “Where are you from?”

  “I am the Painted Man,” he said. “I come from Thesa.”

  “That name is not spoken in Miln,” the duke warned.

  “Nevertheless, it is so,” the Painted Man replied.

  Euchor’s eyes widened at his audacity, and he leaned back, considering. Euchor was different from the other dukes the Painted Man had met in his travels. In Lakton and Rizon, the duke was little more than a figurehead to speak the will of the city council. In Angiers, Rhinebeck ruled, but it seemed his brothers and Janson made as many decisions as he. In Miln, Euchor made all the decisions. His advisors were clearly his, and not the other way around. The fact that he had ruled so long was a testament to his canniness.

  “Can you really kill corelings with your bare hands?” the duke asked.

  The Painted Man smiled again. “As I was telling your Jongleur, Your Grace, come out beyond the wall with me after dark, and I’ll show you personally.”

  Euchor laughed, but it was forced, the color draining from his red, doughy face. “Perhaps another time.”

  The Painted Man nodded.

  Euchor looked at him a long time, as if trying to decide something. “So?” he asked at last. “Are you, or aren’t you?”

  “Your Grace?” the Painted Man asked.

  “The Deliverer,” the duke clarified.

  “Surely not,” Tender Ronnell scoffed, but the duke made a sharp gesture, and he quieted immediately.

  “Are you?” he asked again.

  “No,” the Painted Man replied. “The Deliverer is a legend, nothing more.” Ronnell looked ready to speak up at that, but the librarian glanced at the duke and remained silent. “I am just a man who has found wards once lost.”

  “Battle wards,” Malcum said, his eyes alight. The only one in the room besides Ragen to have faced corelings alone in the night, his interest was no surprise. The Messengers’ Guild would likely pay anything to arm their men with warded spears and arrows.

  “And how did you come by these wards?” Euchor pressed.

  “There is much to be found in the ruins between cities,” the Painted Man replied.

  “Where?” Malcum asked. The Painted Man only smiled, letting them settle on the hook.

  “Enough,” Euchor said. “How much gold for the wards?”

  The Painted Man shook his head. “I will not sell them for gold.”

  Euchor scowled. “I could have my guards persuade you otherwise,” he warned, nodding toward the two at the door.

  The Painted Man smiled. “Then you would find yourself with two less guards.”

  “Perhaps,” the duke mused, “but I have men to spare. Enough, perhaps, to pin even you down while my Warders copy your flesh.”

  “None of my markings will help you ward a spear, or any weapon,” the Painted Man lied. “Those wards are here,” he tapped his hooded temple, “and there are not enough guards in all Miln to force them from me.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Euchor warned, “but I can see you have a price in mind, so name it and be done.”

  “First things first,” the Painted Man said, handing Rhinebeck’s satchel to Jone. “Duke Rhinebeck requests an alliance in driving out the Krasian invasion that has taken Rizon.”

  “Of course Rhinebeck wants to ally,” Euchor snorted. “He sits behind wooden walls, in green lands the desert rats will covet. But what reason have I to march?”

  “He invokes the Pact,” the Painted Man said.

  Euchor waited as Jone took the letter to him, snatching it and reading it quickly. He scowled and crumpled it in his hand.

  “Rhinebeck has already broken the Pact,” he growled, “when he tried to rebuild Riverbridge on his side of the river. Let them pay back the tolls from the last fifteen years, and then perhaps I will give thought to his city.”

  “Your Grace,” the Painted Man said, swallowing the urge to leap onto the dais and throttle the man, “the matter of Riverbridge can be settled another day. This is a threat to both your peoples far beyond that petty dispute.”

  “Petty?!” the duke demanded. Ragen shook his head, and the Painted Man immediately regretted his choice of words. He had never been as good at handling royals as his mentor.

  “The Krasians don’t come for taxes, Your Grace,” he pressed. “Make no mistake, they come to kill and rape until the entire Northland is levied into their army.”

  “I fear no desert rats,” Euchor said. “Let them come and break themselves against my mountains! Let them lay siege in these frozen lands, and see if their sand wards can battle snow demons while they starve outside my walls.”

  “And what of your hamlets?” the Painted Man said. “Will you sacrifice them as well?”

  “I can defend my duchy without aid,” Euchor said. “There are books of war sciences in my library, plans for weapons and engines that can break the savages with little loss to us.”

  “If I may have a word, Your Grace,” Tender Ronnell said, drawing all eyes to him. He bowed deeply, and when Euchor nodded, he darted up the dais steps and bent to whisper.

  The Painted Man’s sharp ears caught every murmured word.

  “Your Grace, are you sure it’s wise to return such secrets to the world?” the Tender asked. “It was the wars of men that brought the Plague.”

  “Would you prefer a plague of Krasians?” Euchor hissed back. “What will become of the Tenders of the Creator if the Evejans come?”

  Ronnell paused. “Your point is well taken, Your Grace.” He bowed away.

  “So you hold the Dividing,” the Painted Man said. “But how long can Miln survive without grain, fish, and lumber from the South? The Royal Gardens may supply your keep, but when the rest of the city begins to starve, they will dig you out of your own walls.”

  Euchor snarled, but he did not immediately reply. “No,” he said at last, “I won’t send Milnese soldiers to die in the South for Rhinebeck’s sake without something in return from him.”

  The Painted Man seethed inwardly at the man’s shortsightedness, but this was not unexpected. Now it was just a matter of negotiation.

  “Duke Rhinebeck has empowered me to make some concessions,” the Painted Man said. “He will not remove his people from their half of Riverbridge, but he will turn fifty percent of the tolls over to you for a period of ten years, in exchange for your aid.”

  “Only half, for a decade?” Euchor scoffed. “That wi
ll barely buy rations for the soldiers.”

  “There is some room to negotiate, Your Grace,” the Painted Man said.

  Euchor shook his head. “Not good enough. Not good enough by far. If Rhinebeck wants my help, I want that and something more.”

  The Painted Man inclined his head. “And that is, Your Grace?”

  “Rhinebeck has still failed to produce a male heir, has he not?” Euchor said bluntly. Mother Jone gasped, and the other men in the room shifted uncomfortably at the unseemly topic.

  “Much as Your Grace,” the Painted Man said, fighting words that Euchor waved away.

  “I have grandsons,” Euchor said. “My line is secure.”

  “Your pardon, but what has this to do with an alliance?” the Painted Man asked.

  “Because if Rhinebeck wishes one, he will have to marry one of my daughters,” Euchor said, looking back at the women standing unprettily behind his throne. “With the bridge tolls as her promise gift.”

  “Aren’t your daughters all Mothers?” the Painted Man asked in confusion.

  “Indeed,” Euchor said, “proven breeders, all of whom have given sons, but still in the flower of their youth.”

  The Painted Man glanced at the women again. They didn’t seem in the flower of anything, but he made no comment. “I mean, Your Grace, aren’t they all wed?”

  Euchor shrugged, “To minor Royals, all. I can dissolve their vows with a wave, and any of them would be proud to sit the throne beside Rhinebeck and give him a son. I’ll even let him choose which one.”

  Rhinebeck will die first, the Painted Man thought. There will be no alliance.

  “I have not been empowered to negotiate such matters,” he said.

  “Of course not,” Euchor agreed. “I’ll put the offer in writing this very day, and send my herald to Rhinebeck’s court to deliver it personally.”

  “Your Grace,” Keerin squeaked, again a sickly pallor, “surely you need me here for—”

  “You will go to Angiers, or I will throw you from my tower,” Euchor growled.

  Keerin bowed, attempting a Jongleur’s mask though his distress still shone through. “Of course it is my great honor to go, if I am absolved of my local duties.”

  Euchor grunted, then turned his eyes back to the Painted Man. “You still haven’t given me a price for your battle wards.”

  The Painted Man smiled and reached into his satchel, producing a grimoire of hand-sewn pages bound in leather. “These?”

  “I thought you said they weren’t with you,” Euchor said.

  The Painted Man shrugged. “I lied.”

  “What do you want for them?” the duke asked again.

  “Warders and supplies sent to Riverbridge with your herald on the way to Angiers,” the Painted Man said, “along with a royal decree accepting all refugees from across the Dividing without toll, and a guarantee of food, shelter, and succor through the winter.”

  “All that, for a book of wards? ” Euchor demanded. “Ridiculous!”

  The Painted Man shrugged. “If you wish to buy those I sold Rhinebeck, you’d best treat with him soon, before the Krasians burn his city down.”

  “The Warders’ Guild will defray the costs to Your Grace, of course,” Ragen said on cue.

  “The Messengers’ Guild, as well,” Malcum added quickly.

  Euchor’s eyes narrowed at the men, and the Painted Man knew he had won. Euchor knew that if he refused, the guildmasters would buy the wards themselves, and he would lose control of the greatest advancement in magic since the First Demon War.

  “I would never ask such of my guilds,” the duke said. “The crown will cover the expense. After all,” he nodded to the Painted Man, “the least Miln can do is take in any survivors who come so far north. Provided, of course, that they take an oath of allegiance.”

  The Painted Man frowned, but he nodded, and at a signal from Euchor, Tender Ronnell hurried forward to take the book from him. Malcum stared at it hungrily.

  “Will you accept the shelter of the caravan back to Angiers?” the duke asked, trying to hide his eagerness for the Painted Man to be gone.

  The Painted Man shook his head. “I thank you, Your Grace, but I am my own succor.” He bowed and, without being dismissed, turned and strode from the room.

  It was simple to lose the men Euchor sent to follow him. The city had begun its morning bustle, and the streets were crowded as the Painted Man headed for the Duke’s Library. He seemed just another Tender as he ascended the marble steps of the greatest building in Thesa.

  As always, the Duke’s Library filled the Painted Man with both elation and sorrow. In it, Euchor and his ancestors had collected copies of nearly every remaining book from the old world that survived the flame demons burning the libraries during the Return. Science. Medicine. Magic. History. Everything. The dukes of Miln had collected all that knowledge and locked it away, denying its benefits to all mankind.

  As a journeyman Warder, the Painted Man had warded the stacks and furniture of the Library, earning permanent placement in the book of access to the archives. Of course, he had no desire to reveal his identity, even to some acolyte clerk, but his objective wasn’t in the stacks this time. Once inside the building, he slipped out of sight and headed down a side passage.

  He was waiting in Tender Ronnell’s office when the librarian returned, clutching the grimoire of battle wards. Ronnell didn’t notice him at first, moving quickly to lock the door behind him. He exhaled then, turning and holding the book out before him.

  “Odd that Euchor would give the book to you and not the head of his Warders’ Guild, who would be better able to decipher it,” the Painted Man said.

  Ronnell yelped at the sound and stumbled back. His eyes widened farther when he saw who stood before him. His hand sketched a quick ward in the air before him.

  When it became clear that the Painted Man intended no attack, the Tender straightened and regained his composure. “I am well qualified to decipher this book. Warding is part of an acolyte’s studies. The world may not be ready for what is contained within. His Grace commanded that I assess it first.”

  “Is that your function, Tender? To decide what mankind is ready for? As if you or Euchor might have a right to deny men the ability to fight back against the corelings?”

  Ronnell snorted. “You speak, sir, as someone who did not sell the wards at a high price rather than giving them freely.”

  The Painted Man walked to Ronnell’s desk. The surface was impeccably neat and clear, save for a lamp, a polished mahogany writing kit, and a brass stand holding the Tender’s personal copy of the Canon. He lifted the book casually, and his sharp ears caught a possessive inhalation from the Tender, but the man said nothing.

  The leather-bound book was worn, its ink faded. It was no showpiece, but rather a guide often referred to, its mysteries pondered regularly. Ronnell had commanded Arlen to read from this very copy during his time at the Library, but he had none of Ronnell’s faith in the book, for it was built upon two premises he could not accept: that there was an all-powerful Creator, and that the corelings were a part of His plan, a punishment upon mankind’s sins.

  In his mind, the book, as much as anything in the world, was responsible for the wretched state of humanity—cowering and weak when they should stand strong; always afraid, never hopeful. But for all that, many of the Canon’s sentiments about brotherhood and the fellowship of men were ones the Painted Man believed in deeply.

  He flipped through the book until he found a certain passage, and began to read:

  “There is no man in creation who is not your brother

  No woman not your sister, no child not your own

  For all suffer the Plague, righteous and sinful alike

  And all must band together to withstand the night.”

  The Painted Man closed the book with a snap that made the librarian jump. “What price did I ask for the wards, Tender? That Euchor help the helpless who come to his door? How do I profit from t
hat?”

  “You could be in league with Rhinebeck,” Ronnell suggested. “Paid to get rid of Beggars who have become a problem south of the Dividing.”

  “Listen to yourself, Tender!” the Painted Man said. “Making excuses not to follow your own Canon!”

  “Why have you come?” Ronnell asked. “You could give the wards to everyone in Miln if you wished.”

  “Already have,” the Painted Man said. “Neither you nor Euchor can suppress them.”

  Ronnell’s eyes widened. “Why are you telling me this? Keerin doesn’t leave until tomorrow. I could still advise the duke to rescind his promise to grant succor to the refugees.”

  “But you won’t,” the Painted Man said, placing the Canon back on its stand pointedly.

  Ronnell scowled. “What is it you want of me?”

  “To know more of the war engines Euchor mentioned,” the Painted Man said.

  Ronnell drew a deep breath. “And if I refuse to tell you?”

  The Painted Man shrugged. “Then I go to the stacks and find out for myself.”

  “The archives are off limits save to those with the duke’s seal,” Ronnell said.

  The Painted Man pulled his hood down. “Even to me?”

  Ronnell stared in wonder at his painted skin. He was silent a long time, and when he spoke, it was another verse from the Canon. “For he shall be marked upon his bare flesh…”

  “And the demons will not abide the sight, and they shall flee terrified before him,” the Painted Man finished. “You made me memorize that passage the year I warded your stacks.”

  Ronnell stared at him for a long moment, trying to peel back the wards and years. Suddenly his eyes flared with recognition. “Arlen?” he gasped.

  The Painted Man nodded. “You gave your word that I would have access to the stacks for life,” he reminded the librarian.

  “Of course, of course…” Ronnell began, but trailed off. He shook his head as if to clear it. “How could I not have seen it?” he muttered.