The Desert Spear

his encounters with her had given him cause to doubt that assessment. Several steps behind her, a pair of guards followed discreetly.
    “That’s him, Mother,” one guard said.
    Jone nodded and dismissed the guard with a wave. He moved back to the gatehouse, but the Painted Man could see many from the courtyard drifting in his wake, eager for gossip.
    “You are the one they call the Painted Man, are you not?” Jone asked.
    The Painted Man nodded. “I come with urgent tidings from Duke Rhinebeck, and an offer of my own.”
    Jone raised an eyebrow at that. “There are many who believe you are the Deliverer come again. How come you to be in the service of Duke Rhinebeck?”
    “I serve no man,” the Painted Man said. “I carry Rhinebeck’s message because his interests and mine intersect. The Krasian attack on Rizon affects us all.”
    Jone nodded. “His Grace agrees, and so he will grant you audience…”
    The Painted Man nodded and began to move toward the palace, but Jone held up a finger. “...tomorrow,” she finished.
    The Painted Man scowled. It was customary for dukes to make Messengers wait for short periods of time as a show of strength, but a Royal Messenger with grave tidings delayed a full day when the sun had yet to reach its zenith? Unheard of.
    “Perhaps you mistake the importance of my news,” the Painted Man said carefully.
    “And perhaps you mistake your own,” Jone replied. “You have quite a reputation south of the Dividing, but you’re in the lands of Duke Euchor, Light of the Mountains and Guardian of the Northland, now. He will see you when his schedule allows, and that is tomorrow.”
    Posturing. Euchor wanted to show his power by turning the Painted Man away.
    He could insist, of course. Claim insult and threaten to return to Angiers, or even force his way past the guards. None of them could hinder him if he did not wish it.
    But he needed Euchor’s goodwill. Ragen would find the grimoire of battle wards he had given Elissa and know what must be done with them, but only Euchor could provide the needed men and supplies to Angiers before it was too late. It was worth a day’s wait.
    “Very well. I’ll be waiting at the gates at dawn tomorrow.” He turned to go.
    “We have curfew in Miln,” Jone said. “No one is allowed on the streets before dawn.”
    The Painted Man turned back to face her, lifting his head to give her a view into his hood. His teeth showed bright against his tattooed lips as he smiled.
    “Have the gate guards arrest me then,” he suggested.
    They could both posture and flex their power.
    Jone’s mouth was a hard line. If the sight of his tattooed flesh unnerved her, she did not show it. “Dawn,” she agreed, and turned swiftly, striding back to the palace.

    Several guards followed him as he left the duke’s keep. They were discreet and kept distance, but there was no doubt they meant to track him back to where he was staying and make note of anyone he spoke to.
    But the Painted Man had lived in Miln for years and knew the city well. He turned a corner into a dead-end alley and, once out of sight, leapt ten feet straight up to catch the sill of a second-floor window. From his perch there, it was an easy leap to the third-floor sill across the way, and from there to the opposite roof. He looked down over the roof ’s edge, watching the guards as they waited patiently for him to realize the dead end and emerge. Soon they would tire of waiting and one would go into the alley to investigate, but he would be long gone by then.

    As he approached the third house on Mill Way, the Painted Man thought back to Elissa’s last, cryptic message about Jaik. Was he well? Had something happened to him?
    Jaik and Mery had been his only friends while growing up. Jaik had dreamed of being a Jongleur, and the boys had made a pact to travel together when Arlen got his Messenger license, as Messengers and Jongleurs frequently did.
    But while Arlen had pursued his goals with a single-minded tenacity, Jaik had never been willing to put in the long hard hours to master a Jongleur’s art. When the time came for Arlen to leave, Jaik could no more juggle than flap his arms and fly.
    He seemed to have done well for himself, even so. Though it was no great manse like that of Ragen and Elissa, Jaik’s cottage was sturdy and well kept, spacious by crowded Miln’s standards. Jaik was likely at the mill at this time of day, which was best. He would have family at home who