The Desert Spear (demon)

by Peter V. Brett

  “Examine as you see fit,” Araine muttered while the handmaids worked, too low for anyone else to hear. “The girl’s been poked and prodded more times than a two-klat inn tart.”

  Leesha shook her head, feeling sorry for the poor girl, but she bent and opened her herb pouch on the duchess’ vanity, laying out a series of bottles and swabs. She had hoped for this opportunity, and came prepared with the proper chemics.

  The young duchess stood meek and silent as Leesha went about her examination, but her heart was thudding in her chest when Leesha listened to it. The girl was likely terrified, afraid of what would happen to her if she failed to produce an heir like the duchesses before her. Leesha wondered if she had even been given a choice in the union, or, as was common throughout Thesa, it was arranged by her parents without a thought to her desires.

  She took a sample of the duchess’ urine and swabs of her vaginal fluids, mixing the samples with chemics and leaving them to interact. She felt at the girl’s womb, even going so far as to slip in a finger to examine her cervix. Finally, she smiled at the duchess. “Everything seems in order, Your Highness. Thank you for your cooperation. You can get dressed now.”

  “Thank you, mistress,” the duchess said. “I hope you can find what’s wrong with me.”

  “I don’t think anything’s ‘wrong’ with you, dear,” Leesha said, “but if something needs correcting, rest assured, we will.” The duchess smiled weakly and nodded. Likely she had heard the same thing from a dozen other Gatherers. She had no reason to think Leesha any different.

  The duchess went back to the window as Leesha went over to the vanity to check on her test results. The duchess mum drifted over to her.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that girl,” Leesha said. “She’s fit to breed an army.”

  Araine handed her a bit of netting full of dried herbs. “The tincture the Royal Gatherer makes to brew her fertility tea.”

  Leesha sniffed the packet. “Standard. It certainly doesn’t hurt, but I could brew stronger…not that it matters.”

  “You think the problem is with my son,” Araine said.

  Leesha shrugged. “The next logical step would be to examine him, Your Grace.”

  Araine snorted. “The stubborn ass will barely let a Gatherer look down his throat when he’s caught a chill and coughing up his innards. Little chance he ’ll let you anywhere near his manhood…” she looked Leesha up and down and smiled wryly, “…unless you want to examine him and collect your samples the old-fashioned way.”

  Leesha scowled, and Araine laughed.

  “I thought not!” she cackled. “we’ll make the girl do it! What else is a young duchess for?”

  Minister Janson remained behind after the duchess mum left with Leesha and Wonda. He produced a slim oak box, lacquered smooth, and handed it to Rojer.

  “We found this in Arrick’s chambers after his dismissal,” Janson said. “I messaged the Jongleurs’ Guild informing him I had it held in trust, but your master never bothered to retrieve it. I confess, it baffled me; Arrick took everything but the feathers from his mattress when he left, including a few things that weren’t precisely his, but this he left on a table, plain as day.”

  Rojer took the case and opened it. Inside, on a bed of green velvet, lay a gold medallion on a heavy braided chain. Molded into relief upon the medallion were crossed spears behind a shield with Duke Rhinebeck’s crest: a leafed crown floating above an ivy-covered throne.

  Rojer remembered enough of Arrick’s heraldry lessons to recognize the medallion immediately: the Royal Angierian Medal of Valor. The duke ’s highest honor. Rojer stared at it, amazed. What had Arrick done to earn such a prize, and why would he leave it behind? Beyond even the symbolic value, the medal itself was worth a fortune. In metal-poor Angiers, the braided chain alone was worth a mountain of klats, and the gold…

  “His Grace bestowed the medal upon Arrick for his bravery at the fall of Riverbridge,” Janson said, as if reading his thoughts. “It would have been enough if he had saved himself and returned to report the fall to the duke, but to face the corelings and rescue you as well, a boy of only three summers who could not run or hide on his own…” He shook his head.

  Rojer felt as if the minister had slapped him. “I can’t imagine why he would have left it behind,” he said hollowly, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Thank you for keeping it safe.” He closed the case and slipped it into the multicolored bag he carried across his shoulders.

  “Well,” Janson said, when it became clear Rojer had no more to say. He looked to the Painted Man. “If you’re ready, Mr. Flinn, His Grace is ready to receive your delegation.”

  “But Leesha…” Rojer began.

  The minister pursed his lips. “His Grace does not care to receive women in his throne room,” he said. “I assure you, Mistress Leesha is in good hands with the duchess mum and her ladies-in-waiting. You can relate the audience to her after His Grace has dismissed you.”

  The Painted Man frowned, and he locked stares with the minister. The little man seemed petrified under those hard eyes, but he did not recant. His eyes flicked to the guards by the door.

  “Very well,” the Painted Man said at last. “Please lead the way.”

  Janson masked a sigh of relief and bowed. “This way, please.”

  Duke Rhinebeck was tall for an Angierian, but still shorter than most of the folk of Deliverer’s Hollow. He was thickly set, a man in his mid-fifties, the muscles of youth now run to flab. His gravy-stained doublet was emerald green, and his leggings brown, both of rare, Krasian silk. He wore the lacquered wooden crown of Angiers atop his oiled brown hair, shot through with gray, but his fingers and throat were bedecked with rings and necklaces of Milnese gold.

  To the duke’s right and on a lower dais sat his brother, Crown Prince Mickael. Almost as old as the duke if a bit more robust, Prince Mickael was clad in equal finery, his hair held in place with a gold circlet. To the duke’s left sat Shepherd Pether, Rhinebeck’s middle brother. The Shepherd was even fatter than Rhinebeck, despite the austerity implied by his plain brown robe and shaved head. Unlike the rough material most Tenders wore, the Shepherd’s robe was made of fine wool, tied with a belt of yellow silk.

  Prince Thamos kept his feet, standing at the bottom of the dais in his ward-lacquered breastplate and greaves. He held his spear at the ready, as did the Wooden Soldiers at the door, though Rojer and the others had been searched and stripped of their weapons before entering the throne room. Even so, beside Gared and the Painted Man, Rojer felt as safe as if he were standing in Deliverer’s Hollow under the bright sun.

  “His Grace, Duke Rhinebeck the Third,” Janson announced, “Guardian of the Forest Fortress, Wearer of the Wooden Crown, and Lord of all Angiers.” Rojer dropped to one knee, Gared following suit. The Painted Man, however, only bowed.

  “Bend knee to your duke,” Thamos growled, pointing to the Painted Man with his spear.

  The Painted Man shook his head. “I mean no disrespect, Your Highness, but I am not Angierian.”

  “What nonsense is this?” Prince Mickael demanded. “You are Flinn Cutter of Cutter’s Hollow, Angierian born and raised. Do you mean to say the Hollow no longer considers itself part of the duchy?” Thamos tightened his grip on his spear, leveling it at them, and Rojer swallowed hard, hoping the Painted Man knew what he was doing.

  The Painted Man seemed not to notice the threat. He shook his head again. “I mean nothing of the sort, Your Highness. Flinn Cutter was only a name given at the gate for expedience’s sake. I apologize for the deception.” He bowed again.

  Janson, who had retreated to a small desk beside the dais, began scribbling furiously.

  “Your accent is Milnese,” Shepherd Pether said. “Are you beholden to Euchor, perhaps?”

  “I have spent time in Fort Miln, but I am not Milnese, either,” the Painted Man said.

  “Then state your name and city,” Thamos said.

  “My name is my own,” the P
ainted Man said, “and I call no city my home.”

  “How dare you?!” Thamos sputtered, advancing with his spear. The Painted Man gave him the bemused look a man might give a young boy who put up his fists. Rojer held his breath.

  “Enough!” Rhinebeck barked. “Thamos, stand down!” Prince Thamos scowled, but he did as he was told, retreating to the foot of the dais and glowering at the Painted Man.

  “Keep your mysteries for now,” Rhinebeck said, raising a hand to forestall any further questions. Prince Mickael glared at his older brother, but kept his tongue.

  “You, I remember,” Rhinebeck said to Rojer, apparently hoping to cut some of the tension in the room. “Rojer Inn, Arrick Sweetsong’s brat, who thought my brothel was a nursery.” He chuckled. “They called your master Sweetsong because his voice made women sweet between the legs. Has the apprentice become the master?”

  “I only charm corelings with my music, Your Grace,” Rojer replied with a bow, painting a smile on his face and hiding his anger behind a Jongleur’s mask.

  Rhinebeck laughed, slapping his knee. “As if a coreling could be taken in like some wood-brained tart! You have Arrick’s humor, I’ll give you that!”

  Lord Janson cleared his throat. “Eh?” Rhinebeck asked, turning to look at his secretary.

  “The word from Messengers passing through the Hollow is that young Mr. Inn can indeed charm demons with his music, Your Grace,” he said.

  The duke’s eyes widened. “Honest word?” Janson nodded.

  Rhinebeck coughed to hide his surprise, then turned back to them, looking at Gared. “You are Captain Gared of the Cutters?” he asked.

  “Er, just Gared, Y’Worship,” Gared stuttered. “I lead the Cutters, yeh, but I ent no captain. Just handy with an axe, I guess.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, boy,” Rhinebeck said. “No one praises a man who won’t praise himself. If half of what I hear about you is true, I may give you a commission myself.”

  Gared opened his mouth to reply, but it was clear he had no idea what the proper response was, so he simply bowed, dipping so low Rojer thought his chin might strike the floor.

  Leesha sipped her tea, her eyes flicking over the rim to regard the duchess mum, who watched her in return with similar quiet candor. Araine ’s servants had set a polished silver tea service on the table between them, along with a pile of pastries and thin sandwiches, before vanishing. A silver bell sat beside the platter to summon them back when needed.

  Wonda sat rigidly, as if trying to make herself as invisible to the duchess mum as she was to corelings in her Cloak of Unsight. She stared at the plate of sandwiches longingly, but seemed terrified to take one, lest she draw attention to herself.

  The duchess mum turned to her. “Girl, if you’re going to dress like a man and carry a spear, stop acting like some timid young debutante whose first suitor has come to court. Eat. Those sandwiches aren’t piled there for show.”

  “Sorry, Y’Grace,” Wonda said, bowing awkwardly. She grabbed a fistful of the finger sandwiches and shoved them into her mouth, neglecting napkin and plate alike. Araine rolled her eyes, but she seemed more amused than put off.

  The duchess mum then turned to Leesha. “As for you, I can see the questions on your face, so you might as well ask them. I’m not getting any younger while we wait.”

  “I’m just…surprised, Your Grace,” Leesha said. “You’re not what I expected.”

  Araine laughed. “From what, my frail crone act in front of the men? Creator, girl, Bruna said you were quick, but I’ve my doubts if you couldn’t see through that.”

  “I won’t be fooled again, I assure you,” Leesha said, “but I confess, I don’t understand why the act was needed at all. Bruna never pretended to be…”

  “Doddering?” Araine asked with a smile as she selected a delicate sandwich from the tray and dipped it smoothly in her tea, eating it in two quick bites. Wonda attempted to mimic her but left the sandwich in her tea too long, and half of it broke off in the cup. Araine snorted as the girl quickly swallowed tea and sandwich alike in one quick gulp.

  “As you say, Your Grace,” Leesha said.

  The duchess mum looked down her nose at Leesha in that reproachful way she had. It reminded her of Lord Janson’s look, and she wondered if the first minister had learned it from her. “It’s necessary,” Araine said, “because men turn to hardwood around a sharp woman, but around a dullard they are soft as pulp. Live a few more decades, and you’ll find my meaning.”

  “I’ll remember that in the audience before His Grace,” Leesha said.

  Araine snorted. “Keep up with the dance, girl. This isthe audience. What goes on in the throne room is all just for show. Whatever they may think, my sons no more run this city than your Smitt does the Hollow.”

  Leesha choked on a pastry and almost spilled her tea. She looked at Araine in shock.

  “It was ill planned to come without Mr. Smitt, though,” Araine tsked. “Bruna hated politics, but she could have taught you the bare rudiments. She knew them well enough. My boys take after their father, and have little use for women at court unless they’re putting food on a table or kneeling under it. They’ve naturally assumed your Mr. Flinn—if that’s even his name—leads the dance now, and will give even that ape Gared and Arrick’s brat more respect than you.”

  “The Painted Man doesn’t speak for the Hollow,” Leesha said. “Nor do the others.”

  “You think me dim, girl?” Araine asked. “One look at them told me that. It makes no difference, though. All the decisions are already made.”

  “Excuse me?” Leesha asked, confused.

  “I gave Janson his instructions last night after I read his report, and he’s seeing to them now,” Araine said. “So long as none of those peacocks starts a real fight while they strut and posture in the throne room, the result of the ‘audience ’ will be this:

  “You will return to the Hollow to await a team of my best Warders to study your combat wards. Before winter, I want every two-klat Warder in Angiers etching weapons until every wood-brained huntsman who can pull a bow has a quiver of warded arrows and warded spears are cheap at the boardwalk kiosks.

  “Thamos and the Wooden Soldiers will accompany the Warders,” Araine went on, “both for their protection and so your Cutters can train them in demon hunting.”

  Leesha nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.” Araine smiled patiently at the interruption, and Leesha realized as far as the duchess mum was concerned, these were royal commands and not topics for debate.

  “The Tenders of the Creator are in turmoil over your painted friend,” Araine went on. “Half of them think he’s the Deliverer himself, and the other half think he’s worse than the mother of all demons. Neither side seems to trust your young Tender Jona, though he seems to be leaning toward the former category. They wish to inquisit him. I’ve exchanged missives with my advisors on the Council of Tenders, and have agreed that a replacement, Tender Hayes, will be sent to tend the faithful in the Hollow while Jona is called here to give testimony before the council. Hayes is a good man, not crazed with zealotry and no fool. He will gauge the Hollowers’ beliefs about the Painted Man even as the council gauges Jona’s.”

  Leesha cleared her throat. “Your pardon, Your Grace, but the Hollow isn’t a city with dozens of Tenders. The people trust Jona to guide them because he has earned that trust over many years. They won’t just follow any man in a brown robe, and they won’t take well to the idea of your dragging Jona off to an inquisition.”

  “If Jona is loyal to his order, he ’ll go willingly and quell any doubts,” Araine said. “If not…well, I wish to know where his loyalties lie as much as the council.”

  “And if the council’s inquisition ends unfavorably?” Leesha asked.

  “It’s been a while since the Tenders burned a heretic,” Araine said, “but I expect they still know the recipe.”

  “Then Tender Jona will not be going,” Leesha said, putting down her cup and me
eting the duchess mum’s eyes, “unless you intend to test your Wooden Soldiers against men who cut trees by day and wood demons by night.”

  Araine’s eyebrows raised, and her nostrils flared. The serene veil returned in an instant, so quickly that Leesha thought she might have imagined the flash of vexation. Araine turned to regard Wonda.

  “Is that true, girl?” she asked. “Will you take arms against your duke, if the Wooden Soldiers come for your Tender?”

  “I’ll fight whoever Leesha tells me to fight,” Wonda said, sitting up to her full height for the first time since meeting the tiny duchess mum.

  Even at fifteen summers, Wonda Cutter was taller than most men in Deliverer’s Hollow, men known to be the tallest in the duchy. She towered over the diminutive old woman, but Araine seemed more amused by her than cowed. The duchess mum nodded as if to dismiss Wonda back to her previous state and looked at Leesha, tapping a nail on her delicate teacup.

  “Very well,” she said at last. “I will personally vouch for Tender Jona’s safety and return to the Hollow, though he may return stripped of his robes.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Leesha said, bowing her head in acceptance of the terms.

  Araine smiled and raised her teacup. “You may be Bruna’s heir after all.” Leesha smiled, and they drank together.

  “The Painted Man,” Araine said, after a moment, “will go alone to Miln, to carry his story about the Krasians to Euchor and make our plea for aid.”

  “Why the Painted Man and not your herald?” Leesha asked.

  Araine snorted. “Janson’s fop nephew? Euchor would eat the boy alive. If you haven’t heard, Euchor and my son despise each other.”

  Leesha looked at her, but the duchess waved the look away. “Don’t try to meddle with those wards, girl. The ivy throne and the metal one have been at odds long before the current occupants sat their overweight bottoms down on them, and will be long after they’re gone. It’s the way of men to glower at their rivals.”

  “That doesn’t explain why it should be the Painted Man and not a Royal Messenger,” Leesha said. “I assure you, if he even agrees to go—and you may find him harder to steer than you think—he will go with his own agenda, and not yours.”