The Warded Man

to fill him a mug of ale. She had let her hair down.
    Rojer pulled his cloak again. The Jongleur tried to tuck it out of reach, but Rojer just tugged on his pant leg instead.
    “What is it?” Arrick asked, turning back to him with a scowl.
    “Do you sing, too?” Rojer asked. “I like singing.”
    “Perhaps I will sing for you later,” Arrick said, turning away again.
    “Oh give him a little song,” Kally begged, putting a foaming mug on the counter before him. “It would make him so happy.” She smiled, but Arrick’s eyes had already drifted down to the top button of her dress, which had mysteriously come undone while she fetched his mug.
    “Of course,” Arrick said, smiling brightly. “Just a pull of your fine ale to wash the dust from my throat.”
    He drained the mug in one quaff, eyes never leaving her neckline, and reached for a large multicolored bag on the floor. Kally refilled his mug as he produced his lute.
    Arrick’s rich alto voice filled the room, clear and beautiful as he gently strummed the lute. He sang a song of a hamlet woman who missed her one chance to love a man before he left for the Free Cities, and forever regretted it. Kally and Rojer stared at him in wonder, mesmerized by the sound. When he finished, they clapped loudly.
    “More!” Rojer cried.
    “Not now, my boy,” Arrick said, ruffling his hair. “Perhaps after supper. Here,” he said, reaching into the multicolored bag, “why not try making your own music?” He produced a straw fiddle, several strips of polished rosewood in different lengths set into a lacquered wooden frame. A stout cord attached it to the wand, a six-inch stick with a lathed wooden ball at the end.
    “Take this and go play a bit while I speak with your lovely mother,” he said.
    Rojer squealed in delight, taking the toy and running off to plop down on the wooden floor, striking the strips in different patterns, delighting in the clear sounds each made.
    Kally laughed at the sight. “He’s going to be a Jongleur one day,” she said.
    “Not a lot of custom?” Arrick asked, sweeping his hand over the empty tables in the common room.
    “Oh, it was crowded enough at lunchtime,” Kally said, “but this time of year, we don’t get many boarders apart from the occasional Messenger.”
    “It must get lonely, tending an empty inn,” Arrick said.
    “Sometimes,” Kally said, “but I’ve Rojer to keep me busy. He’s a handful even when it’s quiet, and a terror during caravan season, when the drivers get drunk and sing till all hours, keeping him up with their racket.”
    “I imagine it must be hard for you to sleep through that, too,” Arrick said.
    “It’s hard for me,” Kally admitted. “But Jessum can sleep through anything.”
    “Is that so?” Arrick asked, sliding his hand over hers. Her eyes widened and she stopped breathing, but she didn’t pull away.
    The front door slammed open. “Wards are patched!” Jessumcalled. Kally gasped, snatching her hand away from Arrick’s so quickly she spilled his ale across the bar. She grabbed a rag to soak it up.
    “Just a patch job?” she asked doubtfully, her eyes down to hide the flush in her cheeks.
    “Not by a spear’s throw,” Geral said. “Honestly, you’re lucky they lasted as long as they did. I patched the worst of them, and I’ll have a talk with Piter in the morning. I’ll see him replace every ward on this inn before sunset if I have to hold him at spearpoint.”
    “Thank you, Geral,” Kally said, casting Jessum a withering look.
    “I’m still mucking the barn,” Jessum said, “so I staked the horses out in the yard in Geral’s portable circle.”
    “That’s fine,” Kally said. “Wash up, all of you. Supper will be ready soon.”
    “Delicious,” Arrick proclaimed, drinking copious amounts of ale with his supper. Kally had roasted an herb-crusted shank of lamb, serving the finest cut to the duke’s herald.
    “I don’t suppose you have a sister as beautiful as yourself?” Arrick asked between mouthfuls. “His Grace is in the market for a new bride.”
    “I thought the duke already had a wife,” Kally said, blushing as she leaned to fill his mug.
    “He does,” Geral grunted. “His fourth.”
    Arrick snorted. “No more fertile than the others, I’m afraid, if the talk around the palace holds true. Rhinebeck will keep seeking wives until one gives him a son.”
    “You might have the right of that,” Geral admitted.
    “How many times will the