The Desert Spear (demon)

by Peter V. Brett

  “Of course he will,” Araine said, “which is precisely why I want that man as far from my city as possible. Whether he means it or not, his very presence will incite people to mad zealotry, and that’s no way for a state to run. Let him go and cause a stir in Miln; Euchor may agree to whatever we want, just to be rid of him.”

  “And what, exactly, do ‘we ’ want?” Leesha asked.

  Araine eyed, her, and Leesha could not tell if she was more amused or annoyed at her audacity. “An alliance against the Krasians, of course,” the duchess mum said at last. “It’s one thing to bicker over some carts of wood and minerals, but quite another for the sheepdogs to keep nipping at one another when there are wolves at the pen.”

  Leesha looked at the woman, wanting to argue, but she found herself agreeing. Part of her felt so safe when Arlen was around, she never wanted him to leave the Hollow. But there was another part of her, a growing part, that found his presence…stifling. Just as he had feared, the Hollowers and refugees were looking to him to save them rather than saving themselves, and hadn’t Leesha done the same? Perhaps it was best for all that he go for a short while.

  When the moment for Leesha to reply had passed with no word spoken, Araine nodded and turned back to her tea. “I have yet to decide what to do with Arrick’s boy. His so-called fiddle magic bears closer examination, but I have no designs on it as yet.”

  “It’s not magic,” Leesha said. “Not as we know it, anyway. He just…charms the corelings, like a Jongleur works a crowd’s mood. It’s a useful skill, but it works only so long as he continues to play, and he hasn’t been able to teach the trick to others.”

  “He might make a good herald,” Araine mused. “Better than Janson’s fop nephew, at any rate, though that says little.”

  “I would prefer that Rojer stay with me, Your Grace,” Leesha said.

  “Oho! Would you?” Araine asked, amused. She reached over the table and pinched Leesha’s cheek. “I like you, girl. Not afraid to speak your mind.” She sat back, looking at Leesha a moment, and then shrugged. “I’m feeling generous,” she said, refilling their teacups. “Keep him. Now, for this ‘Deliverer’ business.”

  “The Painted Man does not claim to be the Deliverer, Your Grace,” Leesha said. She snorted. “Night, he’ll bite the head from any that suggest it.”

  “Whatever he claims, folk believe it,” Araine said, “as evidenced by the sudden change of your hamlet’s name…without royal permission, I might add.”

  Leesha shrugged. “That was the town council’s decision and none of mine.”

  “But you did not oppose it,” Araine noted.

  Leesha shrugged again.

  “Do you believe it?” Araine asked, meeting her eyes. “Is he the Deliverer come again?”

  Leesha looked at the duchess mum for a long time. “No,” she said at last. Wonda gasped out loud, and Leesha scowled.

  “It appears your bodyguard does not agree,” Araine said.

  “It’s not my place to tell people what or what not to believe,” Leesha said.

  Araine nodded. “Just so. Nor is it your town council’s. Janson has already penned a royal condemnation of the name change. If your council is wise, they will repaint their signs in a hurry.”

  “I’ll inform them, Your Grace,” Leesha said. Araine narrowed her eyes at the vague response, but said nothing.

  “And the refugees?” Leesha asked.

  “What about them?” Araine asked.

  “Will you take them in?” Leesha asked.

  The duchess mum snorted. “And put them where? Feed them what? Use your head, girl. Angiers accepts them, but the fort cannot hold so many. Let them swell the hamlets like yours. The Warders and soldiers I send the Hollow will show the duke’s full support for our neighbors in this time of need, and we’ll forgive the lumber shipments the Hollow has failed to make.”

  Leesha pursed her lips. “We need more than that, Your Grace. We have groups of three sharing blankets, and children running about in rags. If you have no food to spare, then send clothing. Or wool from Shepherd’s Dale, that we might make our own. It’s their shearing season, is it not?”

  Araine thought a moment. “I’ll have a few carts of raw wool sent, and drive a hundred head of sheep, as well.”

  “Two hundred,” Leesha said, “at least half of breeding age, and a hundred milking cows.”

  Araine scowled, but she nodded. “Done.”

  “And seed from Farmer’s Stump and Woodsend,” Leesha added. “It’s planting season, and we have the labor to clear land and grow a full crop, if they have sufficient seed to plant.”

  “That’s in everyone’s interest,” Araine agreed. “You’ll get as much as we can spare.”

  “How can you know the men will come to these terms?” Leesha asked.

  Araine cackled. “My sons couldn’t tie their shoes without Janson, and Janson answers to me. Not only will they decide as he advises, they’ll go to their graves thinking it was all their own ideas.”

  Leesha still felt doubtful, but the duchess mum only shrugged at her. “Hear it for yourself, when your men come out and tell you what they ‘negotiated.’ Until then, let’s finish our tea.”

  “Why have you come before the ivy throne?” Rhinebeck asked.

  “The Krasian advance threatens us all,” the Painted Man said. “Refugees flood the countryside, more than the hamlets can easily absorb, and when they move on Lakton—”

  “This is ridiculous,” Prince Mickael cut him off. “At the very least, show your face when addressing the duke.”

  “Apologies, Highness,” the Painted Man said with a slight bow. He drew back his hood, and in the sunlight streaming in through the windows, the wards seemed to crawl across his skin like living things. Thamos and Janson, having seen this before, kept composure, but the other princes could not entirely hide their shock.

  “Creator,” Pether whispered, drawing a ward in the air before him.

  “Since you have no name, I suppose you’ll want us to call you Lord Ward?” Mickael asked, twisting the surprised look on his face into a sneer.

  The Painted Man shook his head, smiling wanly. “I’m as peasant as they come, Highness. No lord in any land.”

  Mickael snorted. “Circumstances of birth notwithstanding, I find it hard to believe a man who styles himself the Deliverer doesn’t think himself as much a lord as any of royal blood. Or do you think yourself above such things?”

  “I’m not the Deliverer, Highness,” the Painted Man said. “I’ve never claimed otherwise.”

  “That’s not what your Tender in Cutter’s Hollow believes, by his own reports,” Shepherd Pether noted, waving a sheaf of papers in the air.

  “He’s not my Tender,” the Painted Man said, scowling. “He can believe as he wishes.”

  “Actually, he can’t,” Janson interrupted, “if he is representing the Tenders of the Creator in Angiers, he owes his loyalty to His Grace the Shepherd and the Council of Tenders. If he is preaching heresy…”

  “That’s a fair point, Janson,” Pether said. “we’ll have to look into that.”

  “You could perhaps have the Council of Tenders summon and inquisit Tender Jona, Your Grace,” Janson suggested.

  “Hear, hear,” Mickael said. He looked to his brother. “You should do that with all haste, brother.” Pether nodded.

  “Your former mentor, Tender Hayes, would be fit to replace him in the Hollow and minister the refugees, Your Grace,” Janson suggested. “He has experience working with the poor, and is loyal to the ivy throne. Perhaps you can convince the council to send him?”

  “Convince them?!” Pether demanded. “Janson, I am their Shepherd! You tell them I said to send Tender Hayes!”

  Janson bowed. “As you say, Your Grace.”

  “As for you,” Pether said, turning back to the Painted Man, “why did the Hollowers rename their hamlet Deliverer’s Hollow if you have no sway there?”

  “I never wanted the change,” the
Painted Man said. “They did it against my wishes.”

  Mickael snorted. “Save that ale story for a taproom of drunks. Of course you wanted the change.”

  “To what end, Highness?” the Painted Man asked. “It does nothing but further a notion I would rather quash.”

  “If that is so, you will have no argument if His Grace sends the town council a royal decree commanding that they change it back, of course,” Janson said.

  The Painted Man shrugged.

  Rhinebeck nodded. “Do it.”

  “As you wish, Your Grace,” Janson said.

  “All this is neither East nor West,” Prince Thamos snapped, stamping his spear butt on the floor. He looked at the Painted Man. “We tested your wards. I killed a wood demon myself with that arrow. I want more. And the other combat wards you’ve developed, along with training for my men. What do you want in exchange?”

  “It matters not what he wants,” Rhinebeck said. “The Hollowers are my subjects, and I won’t pay for what they owe the ivy throne regardless.”

  “As I told Prince Thamos and the Lord Janson, Your Grace,” the Painted Man said, “the corelings are the real enemy. I won’t withhold warded weapons from any who want them.”

  Rhinebeck grunted, and Thamos’ eyes took on an eager light.

  “I can consult with the Warders’ Guild to select Warders to send to the Hollow, if Your Grace wishes,” Janson said. “Perhaps with a contingent of Wooden Soldiers to guard them?”

  “I’ll lead them personally, brother,” Prince Thamos said, turning to look at the duke.

  Rhinebeck nodded. “Very well,” he said.

  “What of the refugees from Rizon?” the Painted Man asked. “Will you take them in?”

  “My city has no room for thousands of refugees,” Rhinebeck said. “Let them succor in the hamlets. We can offer them…what was it again, Janson?” Rhinebeck asked.

  “Royal asylum,” Janson said, “and the protection of the crown to any who swear an oath of loyalty to Angiers.” Rhinebeck nodded.

  The Painted Man bowed. “That is very generous, Your Grace, but these people are starved and penniless, lacking basic necessities of survival. Surely, in your mercy, you can offer more than that.”

  “Very well,” Rhinebeck said. “I’m not heartless. Janson, what can we spare?”

  “Well, Your Grace,” Janson said, flipping open a ledger and scanning its contents, “we can forgive the Hollow its delinquent lumber shipments, of course…”

  “Of course,” Rhinebeck echoed.

  “And while in the Hollow, your Royal Warders can offer their expertise in protecting the refugees in the night,” Janson went on, “as can the Wooden Soldiers.”

  “Of course, of course,” Rhinebeck said.

  Janson pursed his lips. “Please allow me to review further, Your Grace, and I will present you with detailed lists of what resources we have available.”

  “See to it,” Rhinebeck said.

  Janson bowed again. “As you command.”

  “And what of the Krasian advance?” the Painted Man asked.

  “I’ve seen no evidence that the Krasians will advance, apart from your own claims,” Rhinebeck said.

  “They will,” the Painted Man assured. “The Evejah demands it.”

  “You know a lot about the desert rats and their heathen religion,” Pether said. “Lord Janson says you even lived among them for a time.”

  The Painted Man nodded. “That’s correct, Your Grace.”

  “Then how can we be sure of where your loyalties lie?” Pether said. “For all we know, you’re a corespawned Evejan convert yourself. Night, if you won’t tell us who you are and where you’re from, how do we even know you’re not a Krasian yourself under all those wards?”

  Gared growled, but the Painted Man held up a finger, and the giant Cutter fell silent. “I assure you, that isn’t the case,” the Painted Man said. “My loyalty is to Thesa.”

  Rhinebeck smiled. “Prove it.”

  The Painted Man tilted his head curiously. “How shall I prove it, Your Grace?”

  “My herald is out in the hamlets,” Rhinebeck said, “and cannot travel as swiftly as you, in any event. Go to Fort Miln for me and speak to Duke Euchor. Invoke the Pact.”

  “The Pact, Your Grace?” the Painted Man asked. Rhinebeck looked to Janson, who cleared his throat.

  “The Pact of the Free Cities,” the minister said. “In the year zero, after the first wardwalls were finally built and a semblance of order restored to the ravaged countryside, the surviving dukes of Thesa signed a mutual nonaggression pact called the Pact of the Free Cities. In it, they recognized the death of the king of Thesa and the end of his line, and accepted one another’s sovereignty over their territories. The pact bans the taking of territory by force, and promises the unity of all cities in putting down its violators.”

  “Did the Krasians sign this Pact?” the Painted Man asked.

  Janson shook his head. “Krasia was not part of Thesa, and thus was never subject to the Pact. However,” he held up a hand to forestall further response as he set his spectacles at the end of his nose and lifted an old parchment, “the exact wording of the Pact is as follows:

  “Should the territory or sovereignty of any duchy be threatened by human design, it shall be the obligation of all signees and their posterity to intercede in unity on behalf of the threatened party.” Janson set the parchment down. “The Pact was so worded to outlaw all warfare among men, because there were so few of us left after the depredations of the Return. Thus, it remains binding, regardless of whether the Krasian leader signed it.”

  “Do you think Duke Euchor will see it so?” the Painted Man asked Janson.

  “Are you in audience with my secretary, or me?” Rhinebeck demanded loudly, drawing all eyes back to him. Rojer saw that the duke had gone red in the face, as angry as he had been the night he had caught seven-year-old Rojer sleeping in the bed of one of his favorite whores.

  The Painted Man bowed. “Apologies, Your Grace,” he said. “No disrespect was meant.”

  Rhinebeck seemed somewhat mollified by the response, but his reply remained gruff. “Euchor will try to find a way out of the Pact like a coreling longs for a gap in the wards, but without support from him, Angiers cannot afford to commit to attacking the Krasian host.”

  “You would violate the Pact yourself?” the Painted Man asked.

  “Intercede in unity, the Pact says,” Rhinebeck growled. “Should I clash with the desert rats alone, only to have Euchor sweep in and destroy both our weakened armies and declare himself king?”

  The Painted Man was silent a long time. “Why me, Your Grace?”

  Rhinebeck snorted. “Don’t be modest. Every Jongleur in Thesa sings of you. If your arrival causes half the stir in Miln that it has in Angiers, Euchor will have no choice but to adhere to the Pact, especially if you sweeten the call with your battle wards.”

  “I won’t withhold them for political gain,” the Painted Man said.

  “Of course not,” Rhinebeck said, grinning, “but Euchor need not know that, ay?”

  Rojer edged closer to the Painted Man. A skilled puppeteer, he could shout or whisper without moving his lips, even making the sounds appear to come from another place.

  “He’s just trying to be rid of you,” he warned, so the others did not hear or notice.

  But if the Painted Man heard him, he gave no sign. “Very well, I’ll do it. I’ll need your seal, Your Grace, so Duke Euchor knows the message is authentic.”

  “You’ll have whatever you need,” Euchor promised.

  “Your Grace,” the lady-in-waiting said, “the Lord Janson bade me to inform you that the duke’s audience with the delegation from Cutter’s Hollow is at an end.”

  “Thank you, Ema,” Araine said, not bothering to ask how things went. “Please inform Lord Janson that we will meet them in the antechamber when we have finished our tea.” Ema curtsied smoothly and vanished. Wonda threw back the rest of
her cup and got to her feet.

  “There is no need for haste, young lady,” Araine told her. “It does men good to have to wait for a woman now and again. It teaches them patience.”

  “Yes’m,” Wonda said, bowing.

  The duchess mum got to her feet. “Come here, girl, and let me have a proper look at you,” she said. Wonda came closer, and Araine walked around her, examining her worn and patched clothes, the jagged scars on her homely face, and reaching out to squeeze her shoulders and arms like a butcher examining livestock.

  “I can see why you chose to lead a man’s life,” the duchess mum said, “you being built like one. Do you regret missing out on a life of dresses and blushing at suitors?” Leesha got to her feet, but the duchess mum raised a finger at her without even turning, and Leesha kept her tongue behind her teeth.

  Wonda shifted her feet uncomfortably. “Ent never given it much thought.”

  Araine nodded. “What’s it like, girl, to stand among men when they go to war?”

  Wonda shrugged. “Feels good to kill demons. They killed my da and a lot of my friends. Some of the Cutters treated us women different at first, trying to keep us behind them when the demons came, but we kill as many as they do, and after a few of them got pounced on for looking out for some woman instead of themselves, they wised up quick.”

  “The men here would be worse, by far,” Araine said. “I had to abdicate power when my husband died, even though my eldest son was an idiot, and his brothers little better. Creator forbid a woman sit the ivy throne. I’ve always been a little jealous of the way old Bruna dominated men openly, but that sort of thing just isn’t done here.”

  She eyed Wonda again. “Not yet, anyway,” she allowed. “Stand tall in the night for me, girl. Stand tall for every woman in Angiers, and never let anyone, man or woman, make you stoop.”

  “I will, Y’Grace,” Wonda said, making a proper bow at last. “I swear it by the sun.”

  Araine grunted and tapped her chin for a moment, then snapped her fingers. She snatched up the little silver bell on the table and rang it. In an instant one of her ladies-in-waiting appeared. “Summon my seamstress immediately,” Araine said. The woman curtsied and scurried off, and moments later another woman arrived, assisted by a young girl with a leather-bound book and a feathered quill.