The Desert Spear

fight back against the corelings?”
    Ronnell snorted. “You speak, sir, as someone who did not sell the wards at a high price rather than giving them freely.”
    The Painted Man walked to Ronnell’s desk. The surface was impeccably neat and clear, save for a lamp, a polished mahogany writing kit, and a brass stand holding the Tender’s personal copy of the Canon. He lifted the book casually, and his sharp ears caught a possessive inhalation from the Tender, but the man said nothing.
    The leather-bound book was worn, its ink faded. It was no showpiece, but rather a guide often referred to, its mysteries pondered regularly. Ronnell had commanded Arlen to read from this very copy during his time at the Library, but he had none of Ronnell’s faith in the book, for it was built upon two premises he could not accept: that there was an all-powerful Creator, and that the corelings were a part of His plan, a punishment upon mankind’s sins.
    In his mind, the book, as much as anything in the world, was responsible for the wretched state of humanity—cowering and weak when they should stand strong; always afraid, never hopeful. But for all that, many of the Canon’s sentiments about brotherhood and the fellowship of men were ones the Painted Man believed in deeply.
    He flipped through the book until he found a certain passage, and began to read:
“There is no man in creation who is not your brother
    No woman not your sister, no child not your own
    For all suffer the Plague, righteous and sinful alike
    And all must band together to withstand the night.”

    The Painted Man closed the book with a snap that made the librarian jump. “What price did I ask for the wards, Tender? That Euchor help the helpless who come to his door? How do I profit from that?”
    “You could be in league with Rhinebeck,” Ronnell suggested. “Paid to get rid of Beggars who have become a problem south of the Dividing.”
    “Listen to yourself, Tender!” the Painted Man said. “Making excuses not to follow your own Canon!”
    “Why have you come?” Ronnell asked. “You could give the wards to everyone in Miln if you wished.”
    “Already have,” the Painted Man said. “Neither you nor Euchor can suppress them.”
    Ronnell’s eyes widened. “Why are you telling me this? Keerin doesn’t leave until tomorrow. I could still advise the duke to rescind his promise to grant succor to the refugees.”
    “But you won’t,” the Painted Man said, placing the Canon back on its stand pointedly.
    Ronnell scowled. “What is it you want of me?”
    “To know more of the war engines Euchor mentioned,” the Painted Man said.
    Ronnell drew a deep breath. “And if I refuse to tell you?”
    The Painted Man shrugged. “Then I go to the stacks and find out for myself.”
    “The archives are off limits save to those with the duke’s seal,” Ronnell said.
    The Painted Man pulled his hood down. “Even to me?”
    Ronnell stared in wonder at his painted skin. He was silent a long time, and when he spoke, it was another verse from the Canon.
“For he shall be marked upon his bare flesh…”
    “And the demons will not abide the sight, and they shall flee terrified before him,”
the Painted Man finished. “You made me memorize that passage the year I warded your stacks.”
    Ronnell stared at him for a long moment, trying to peel back the wards and years. Suddenly his eyes flared with recognition. “Arlen?” he gasped.
    The Painted Man nodded. “You gave your word that I would have access to the stacks for life,” he reminded the librarian.
    “Of course, of course…” Ronnell began, but trailed off. He shook his head as if to clear it. “How could I not have seen it?” he muttered.
    “Seen what?” the Painted Man asked.
    “You.” Ronnell dropped to his knees. “You are the Deliverer, sent to end the Plague!”
    The Painted Man scowled. “I’ve said no such thing. You knew me as a boy! I was willful and impulsive. Never set foot in a Holy House. I courted your daughter and then left and broke our promise.” He leaned in close to the Tender. “And I’ll eat demonshit before I believe humanity deserves the ‘Plague.’ ”
    “Of course not,” Ronnell agreed. “The Deliverer must believe the opposite.”
    “I’m not the ripping Deliverer!” the Painted Man snapped, but this time the librarian did not flinch, his eyes wide with wonder.
    “You are,” Ronnell said. “It’s the only way to explain your