The Desert Spear

none of them prettier. Mothers all, with born sons. If Euchor doesn’t produce a son of his own, the Mothers’ Council will choose the next duke from among that group of unholy brats.”
    “So if Euchor dies, a boy becomes duke?” the Painted Man asked.
    “Technically,” Ragen said, “though truer is the boy’s mother becomes duchess in everything but name and rules in his stead until he reaches manhood…and perhaps longer. Don’t underestimate any of them.”
    “I won’t,” the Painted Man said.
    “You should know, too, that the duke has a new herald,” Ragen said.
    The Painted Man shrugged. “What does that matter? I never knew the old one.”
    “It matters,” Ragen said, “because the new one is Keerin.”
    The Painted Man looked up sharply. Keerin was Ragen’s Jongleur partner when they found young Arlen on the road, unconscious and dying of demon fever after crippling One Arm. The Jongleur had been a coward, curling under his bedroll and whimpering as demons tested the wards, but years later the Painted Man had caught him giving a performance where he claimed to have crippled the demon himself, a demon that nightly tried to break into the city to revenge itself upon Arlen, and one time even succeeded in breaching the wall. Arlen had called Keerin a liar publicly, and he and Jaik were badly beaten by Keerin’s apprentices as a result.
    “How can a man who refuses to travel herald the duke?” the Painted Man asked.
    “Euchor holds tight to power by hoarding people as well as knowledge,” Ragen said. “Keerin’s stupid little song about One Arm made him sought after by Royals, and that got Euchor’s attention. Keerin had a ducal commission soon after, and now performs solely at the duke’s pleasure.”
    “So he doesn’t truly herald,” the Painted Man said.
    “Oh, he does,” Ragen said. “Most of the hamlets can be reached without ever leaving proper succor, and Euchor even built some way stations on the way to others to accommodate the stoneless little weasel.”

    The gates to the Duke’s Keep opened at dawn, and the person who strode out to greet the Painted Man was none other than Keerin.
    Keerin was much as the Painted Man remembered, tall even for a Milnese, with carrot-colored hair and bright green eyes. He had fattened a bit, no doubt due to the benefits of his new patron. His thin wisp of a mustache still refused to join with the curl of hair at his chin, though powder crinkled in the lines of his face, attempting to preserve a fading youth.
    But where he had last seen Keerin in a Jongleur’s patchwork motley, he was now a royal herald, and dressed accordingly. His tabard was patched in Euchor’s gray, white, and green, cutting a much more somber figure, though his pantaloons were still loose, should he be called upon to tumble, and the inside of his black cloak was sewn with patchwork colored silk that could be revealed with a twirl.
    “An honor to meet you, sir!” Keerin said, bowing formally. “His Grace is preparing for the arrival of a few of his key councilors before your audience. If you’ll come with me, I will escort you to a waiting salon.”
    The Painted Man followed him through the palace. The last time he had walked here, it was a bustle of activity as Servants and Mothers scurried to and fro on the duke’s business. But this early in the morning, the halls were still empty save for the occasional Servant, trained to be all but invisible.
    Buzzing lamps lit the way with a pulsing glow. These needed no oil or wick, no Herb Gatherer’s chemics. Lectrics, it was called, another bit of old science Euchor kept only for himself. It seemed like magic, but the Painted Man knew from his time in the Duke’s Library that it was just harnessed magnetics, no different from wind or running water turning a mill.
    Keerin ushered him into a room plush with velvet and a warm hearth. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and there was a mahogany writing desk. If he were alone, it might be a pleasant place to wait.
    But Keerin made no move to leave. He went to a silver service, pouring goblets of spiced wine, and returned to hand one to the Painted Man. “I, too, am a demon fighter of some renown. Perhaps you have heard the song I composed about it, titled ‘One Arm’?”
    Young Arlen would have seethed at this, Keerin still laying claim to his deeds, but the Painted Man was beyond such things. “I have indeed,” he said, clapping the tall Jongleur on the