The Warded Man

master couldn’t hit him for something he didn’t know about.
    A grumbling crowd milled about Small Square as Rojer arrived; perhaps a score of people, some of those children. Rojer could remember a time when word that Arrick Sweetsong might appear drew hundreds from all ends of the city and even the hamlets nearby. He would have been singing in the temple to the Creator then, or the duke’s amphitheater. Now Small Square was the best the guild would give him, and he couldn’t even fill that.
    But any money was better than none. If even a dozen left Rojer a klat apiece, it might buy another night from Master Keven, so long as the Jongleurs’ Guild did not catch him performing without his master. If they did, overdue rent would be the least of their troubles.
    With a “Whoot!” he danced through the crowd, throwing handfuls of dyed wingseeds from the bag. The seedpods spun and fluttered in his wake, leaving a trail of bright color.
    “Arrick’s apprentice!” one crowd member called. “The Sweetsong will be here after all!”
    There was applause, and Rojer felt his stomach lurch. Hewanted to tell the truth, but Arrick’s first rule of jongling was never to say or do anything to break a crowd’s good mood.
    The stage at Small Square had three tiers. The back was a wooden shell designed to amplify sound and keep inclement weather off the performers. There were wards inscribed into the wood, but they were faded and old. Rojer wondered if they would grant succor to him and his master, should they be put out tonight.
    He raced up the steps, handspringing across the stage and throwing the collection hat just in front of the crowd with a precise snap of his wrist.
    Rojer warmed every crowd for his master, and for a few minutes, he fell into that routine, cartwheeling about and telling jokes, performing magic tricks, and mumming the foibles of well-known authority figures. Laughter. Applause. Slowly, the crowd began to swell. Thirty. Fifty. But more and more began to murmur, impatient for the appearance of Arrick Sweetsong. Rojer’s stomach tightened, and he touched the talisman in its secret pocket for strength.
    Staving off the inevitable as long as he could, he called the children forward to tell them the story of the Return. He mummed the parts well, and some nodded in approval, but there was disappointment on many faces. Didn’t Arrick usually sing the tale? Wasn’t that why they came?
    “Where is the Sweetsong?” someone called from the back. He was shushed by his neighbors, but his words hung in the air. By the time Rojer had finished with the children, there were general grumbles of discontent.
    “I came to hear a song!” the same man called, and this time others nodded in agreement.
    Rojer knew better than to oblige. His voice had never been strong, and it cracked whenever he held a note for more than a few breaths. The crowd would turn ugly if he sang.
    He turned to the bag of marvels for another option, passing over the juggling balls in shame. He could catch and throw well enough with his crippled right hand, but with no index finger to put the correct spin on the ball and only half a hand to catch with, the complex interplay between both hands when juggling was beyond him.
    “What kind of Jongleur can’t sing and can’t juggle?” Arrick would shout sometimes. Not much of one, Rojer knew.
    He was better with the knives in the bag, but calling audience members up to stand by the wall while he threw required a special license from the guild. Arrick always chose a buxom girl to assist, who more often than not ended up in his bed after the performance.
    “I don’t think he’s coming,” he heard that same man say. Rojer cursed him silently.
    Many of the other crowd members were slipping away, as well. A few tossed klats in the hat out of pity, but if Rojer didn’t do something soon, they would never have enough to satisfy Master Keven. His eyes settled on the fiddle case, and he snatched it quickly, seeing that only a few onlookers remained. He pulled out the bow, and as always, there was a rightness in the way it fit his crippled hand. His missing fingers weren’t needed here.
    No sooner than he put bow to string, music filled the square. Some of those who were turning away stopped to listen, but Rojer paid them no mind.
    Rojer didn’t remember much about his father, but he had a clear memory of Jessum clapping and laughing as Arrick fiddled. When he played, Rojer felt his father’s