The Warded Man

and he led it out like a partner in a reel, sweeping it into a whirlwind of music. He forgot the crowd. He forgot Arrick. Alone with his music, he explored new harmonies even as he maintained a constant melody, improvising in time to the tempo of clapping that seemed a world removed.
    He had no idea how long it went on. He could have stayed in that world forever, but there was a sharp twang, and something stung his hand. He shook his head to clear it and looked up at the wide-eyed and silent crowd.
    “String broke,” he said sheepishly. He glanced at his master, who stood in the same shock as the other onlookers. Arrick raised his hands slowly and began to clap.
    The crowd followed soon after, and it was thunderous.
    “You’re going to make us rich with that fiddling, boy,” Arrick said, counting their take. “Rich!”
    “Rich enough to pay the back dues you owe the guild?” a voice asked.
    They turned to see Master Jasin leaning against the wall. His two apprentices, Sali and Abrum, stood close by. Sali sangsoprano with a clear voice as beautiful as she was ugly. Arrick sometimes joked that if she wore a horned helmet, audiences would mistake her for a rock demon. Abrum sang bass, his voice a deep thrum that made the planked streets vibrate. He was tall and lean, with gigantic hands and feet. If Sali was a rock demon, he was surely a wood.
    Like Arrick, Master Jasin was an alto, his voice rich and pure. He wore expensive clothes of fine blue wool and gold thread, spurning the motley that most of his profession wore. His long black hair and mustache were oiled and meticulously groomed.
    Jasin was a man of average size, but that made him no less dangerous. He had once stabbed a Jongleur in the eye during an argument over a particular corner. The magistrate ruled it self-defense, but that wasn’t how the talk in the apprentice room of the guildhouse told it.
    “The payment of my guild dues is no concern of yours, Jasin,” Arrick said, quickly dumping the coins in the bag of marvels.
    “Your apprentice may have talked your way out of missing that performance yesterday, Soursong, but his fiddle can’t succor you forever.” As he spoke, Abrum snatched Rojer’s fiddle from his hands and broke it over his knee. “Sooner or later, the guild will have your license.”
    “The guild would never give up Arrick Sweetsong,” Arrick said, “but even if they did, Jasin would still be known as ‘Secondsong.’”
    Jasin scowled, for many in the guild already used that name, and the master was known to fly into rages at its utterance. He and Sali advanced on Arrick, who held the bag protectively. Abrum backed Rojer against a wall, keeping him from going to his master’s aid.
    But this wasn’t the first time they had needed to fight to defend their take. Rojer dropped straight down on his back, coiling like a spring and kicking straight up. Abrum screamed, his normally deep voice taking on a different pitch.
    “I thought your apprentice was a bass, not a soprano,” Arrick said. When Jasin and Sali spared a glance to their companion, his quick hands darted into the bag of marvels, sending a fistful of wingseeds spinning in the air before them.
    Jasin lunged through the cloud, but Arrick sidestepped andtripped him easily, bringing the bag around in a hard swing at Sali, hitting the bulky woman full in the chest. She might have kept her feet, but Rojer was in position, kneeling behind her. She fell hard, and before the three could recover, Arrick and Rojer ran off down the boardwalk.

CHAPTER 16
ATTACHMENTS
323-325 AR

    THE ROOF OF THE DUKE’S LIBRARY in Miln was a magical place for Arlen. On a clear day, the world spread out below him, a world unrestrained by walls and wards, stretching on into infinity. It was also the place where Arlen first looked at Mery, and truly saw her.
    His work in the library was nearly complete, and he would soon be returning to Cob’s shop. He watched the sun play over the snowcapped mountains and fall on the valley below, trying to memorize the sight forever, and when he turned to Mery, he wanted to do the same for her. She was fifteen, and more beautiful by far than mountains and snow.
    Mery had been his closest friend for over a year, but Arlen had never thought more of her than that. Now, seeing her limned in sunlight, cold mountain wind blowing the long brown hair from her face as she hugged her arms against the swell of her bosom to ward off the chill, she was suddenly a