The Desert Spear

anyone was watching. “The guildmaster will have your stones!”
    “Not if he wants to keep his own, he won’t,” Gared growled. Daved turned to him, seeing only a pair of burly crossed arms, and had to crane his head up to look Gared in the eye.
    “As you say, sir,” the clerk said, swallowing hard. He got up from his tiny hallway desk. “I will inform the guildmaster you’re waiting.” He went to the heavy oak doors of the guildmaster’s office, knocked, and vanished inside at the muffled reply.
    “Here?! Now?!” a man cried from inside, and a moment later the doors burst open to reveal Guildmaster Cholls. Rather than the motley almost all Jongleurs wore, the guildmaster was dressed in a fine linen shirt and wool waistcoat, his beard trim and his hair combed neatly back with oil. He looked more like a royal than a Jongleur. As he thought about it, Rojer realized he had never once seen the guildmaster perform. He wondered if Cholls was a Jongleur at all.
    The guildmaster’s face was a thunderhead, pulling Rojer from his musing. “You’ve got some stones, coming back here, Halfgrip! We had a ripping funeral for you, and you still owe me…” He glanced at Daved.
    “Five thousand klats,” Daved supplied, “give or take a few dozen.”
    “We can sort that first,” Rojer said, pulling a purse of the Painted Man’s ancient coins from his pocket and tossing it to the guildmaster. The coins were worth twice his debt, at least.
    Cholls’ eyes lit up at the glitter of gold as he opened the purse. He snatched a coin at random and bit it, his scowl vanishing at the imprint his teeth made in the soft metal. He looked back to Rojer.
    “I suppose I can make some time to hear your excuses,” he said, stepping aside to allow Rojer and Gared into his office. “Daved, bring some tea for our guests.”
    Daved brought in the tea, and Rojer slipped him another gold coin, likely more money than the clerk saw in a year. “That’s for the paperwork to make me alive again.”
    Daved nodded, his smile wide. “You’ll be off the pyre and back among the living by sunset.” He left the office, closing the door behind him.
    “All right, Rojer,” Cholls said. “What in the night happened last year and where in the Core have you been? One day you and Jaycob are raking in the klats to pay your debt, and the next I get a note from some clerk, asking me to pay for the pyre for Master Jaycob’s body in the city coldhouse, with you just vanished!”
    “Master Jaycob and I were attacked,” Rojer said. “Spent months in hospit recovering, and when I was well, I thought it best to leave town for a bit.” He smiled. “But since then, I’ve been witnessing the greatest ripping tampweed tale anyone’s ever seen, and the best part is, it’s true!”
    “Not good enough, Halfgrip,” Cholls said. “Attacked by who?”
    Rojer gave the guildmaster a knowing look. “Who do you think?”
    Cholls’ eyes widened, and he coughed to cover it. “Ay…well, what’s important is that you’re all right.”
    “Someone put ya in the hospit?” Gared asked, balling a fist. “Jus’ tell me where to find ’em, and I’ll—”
    “We ’re not here for that,” Rojer said, laying a hand on Gared’s arm, but looking at Cholls as he did. The guildmaster blew out a breath, seeming to deflate.
    “To the Core with tea,” Cholls muttered, “I could do with a real drink.” His hands shook a little as he reached into his desk, producing a glazed clay jug and three cups. He poured a generous portion in each and handed them out.
    “To choosing our battles wisely,” the guildmaster said, raising his cup and exchanging a look with Rojer as they drank.
    Gared looked at them both suspiciously, and Rojer wondered if the burly Cutter was really quite as dim as everyone thought. After a moment, though, Gared shrugged and tossed back the cup, swallowing it all in one gulp.
    Immediately his eyes bulged, and his face turned bright red. He bent over, coughing violently.
    “Creator, boy, you don’t gulp it!” Cholls scolded. “That’s Angierian brandy, and likely older than you are. It’s meant to be sipped.”
    “Sorry, sir,” Gared gasped, his voice gone hoarse.
    “They’re used to watered ale in the Hollow,” Rojer said. “Great foaming mugs that giants like Gared throw back by the dozen. What little spirit they have goes right from the fermenting tub to the glass.”
    “No appreciation for the subtle,” Cholls agreed,