The Desert Spear

nodding. “And you, Halfgrip?”
    Rojer smiled. “I was Arrick’s apprentice, wasn’t I?” He took another pull from his cup and swished the liquid in his mouth, savoring the taste as he exhaled the alcohol burn through his nostrils. “I was drinking brandy before I had hair on my seedpods.”
    Cholls laughed, reaching into his desk again and producing a leather weed pouch. “They do smoke in the Hollow, ay?” he asked Gared, who was still coughing a little. Gared nodded.
    The guildmaster gave a start, whipping around to look at Rojer. “The Hollow, you say?”
    “Ay,” Rojer said, taking a pinch from Cholls’ pouch and packing it into a pipe that appeared in his crippled hand. “I did.”
    Cholls gaped. “
You’re
the Painted Man’s fiddle wizard?!”
    Rojer nodded, lighting a taper from the lamp on the guildmaster’s desk and puffing the pipe to a glow.
    Cholls sat back, regarding Rojer. After a moment, he nodded. “Guess it’s not too much of a surprise, at that. I always thought you had a bit of magic in your fiddling.”
    Rojer passed him the taper, and Cholls puffed his own pipe to life, passing it to Gared.
    They smoked in silence for a time, but eventually Cholls sat up and knocked the dottle from his pipe, setting it on its small wooden stand on his desk. “All right, Rojer, you can sit there smugly all day, but I have a guild to run. You’re telling me you were in Cutter’s Hollow for the coming of the Painted Man?”
    “I wasn’t just in the Hollow for the
coming
of the Painted Man,” Rojer said. “He
arrived
with me and Leesha Paper.”
    “The one they call the ward witch?” Cholls asked.
    Rojer nodded.
    Cholls’ eyebrows narrowed. “If you’re spinning some ale story at me, Rojer, I swear by the sun I’ll…”
    “It’s no ale story, this,” Rojer said. “Every word is true.”
    “You and I both know that we ’re talking about a story every Jongleur alive would kill for,” Cholls said, “so let’s skip to the end. How much do you want for it?”
    “I’m not motivated by money anymore, Guildmaster,” Rojer said.
    “Don’t tell me you’ve had some kind of religious awakening,” Cholls said. “Arrick would roll over in his grave. This Painted Man may fill seats at a Jongleur show, but you don’t actually think he’s the Deliverer, do you?”
    There was a loud crack, and both men looked to see one of Gared’s chair arms had broken off in the big man’s grip. “He
is
the Deliverer,” Gared growled, “and I’ll have at any man that says otherwise.”
    “You’ll do no such thing!” Rojer snapped. “He’s said himself he isn’t, and unless you want me to tell him what an ass you’re making of yourself, you’ll keep your peace.”
    Gared glared at him a moment, and Rojer felt his blood run cold, but he met the stare with one of his own and didn’t back down an inch. After a moment, Gared calmed and looked sheepishly at the guildmaster.
    “Sorry about the chair,” he said, trying lamely to put the arm back on.
    “Ah…think nothing of it,” Cholls said, though Rojer knew the chair cost more than most Jongleurs ever had in their purse at once.
    “I’m not qualified to say he’s the Deliverer or not,” Rojer said. “Until last year, I thought the Painted Man’s very existence was an ale story. I spun more than a few of them, myself, making them up as I went along.” He leaned in to the guildmaster. “But he ’s real. He kills demons with his bare hands, and he has powers I can’t explain.”
    “Jongleur’s tricks,” Cholls said skeptically.
    Rojer shook his head. “I’ve dazzled my share of yokels with magic tricks, Guildmaster. I’m not some bumpkin taken in by sleight of hand and flash powders. I’m not calling him Creator-sent, but he has
real
magic, sure as the sun shines.”
    Cholls sat back, steepling his fingers. “Let’s say you’re telling the truth. That still doesn’t explain why you’re here, if you aren’t looking to sell me the story.”
    “Oh, I’ll sell it,” Rojer said. “I composed a song, ‘The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow,’ that will be called for in every ale house and square in the city, and there are enough stories from the last year to keep your Jongleurs working just to empty their collection hats so the people can fill them again.”
    “Then what do you want, if not money?” Cholls asked.
    “I need to train others to use fiddle magic,” Rojer said. “But I’m no teacher. I’ve had