The Skull Throne

CHAPTER 17 GOLDENTONE 333 AR WINTER

The Angierian heraldic coach looked out of place in the Hollow, but Rojer would have known it anywhere. He and Arrick had ridden in it countless times back when his master was still in Rhinebeck’s favor.

Only now it belonged to Jasin Goldentone.

Rojer’s bow skidded off the strings as the coach pulled up in the Corelings’ Graveyard, escorted by a dozen Wooden Soldiers on sleek Angierian coursers. The other Jongleurs and apprentices, following his lead in the bandshell, ceased their playing as well, following his gaze.

Kendall caught his eye. “Everything all right? You look white as a cloud.”

Rojer barely heard her. His head swam with a mix of panic and fear, remembering the screams and laughter of a bloody night not so long ago. He watched, transfixed, as the footman lowered the steps and moved to open the carriage door.

Hary Roller put a hand on his shoulder. “Go, lad. Now, before you’re seen. I’ll give your regrets.”

The words, and the gentle shove the old Jongleur gave served to snap Rojer out of his daze. Hary took up his fiddle and stepped up to lead the orchestra, drawing the attention of the players away as Rojer slipped away.

Exiting stage right, Rojer picked up speed the moment he was out of sight, bounding the steps three at a time and then out the door, darting around the back of the bandshell quick as a hare. He pressed his back to the wall in the shadow of the shell, watching as Goldentone stepped out of the coach.

The last year had done little to dull Rojer’s feelings at the sight of the man who had murdered Master Jaycob and left Rojer for dead in the streets of Angiers at night. In the safety of the shadows, Rojer’s lip curled and his hand itched to flick and draw down one of the knives he kept strapped to his forearms. One good throw …

And what? he asked himself. You get hung for murdering the duke’s herald?

But Rojer’s muscles would not unclench. He was breathing hard just standing still, his body filling itself with oxygen to fight or flee.

Jasin called to Hary, and the old Jongleur moved down the steps at the front of the stage to greet him. The men shared a hug and a slap on the back, and the knives seemed to fall into Rojer’s hands of their own accord.

There was no sign of his apprentices, Abrum and Sali. Abrum who had broken Rojer’s fiddle and held him down. Sali, who had laughed as she beat Master Jaycob to death.

But the apprentices were just tools. It was Jasin who had ordered it. Jasin who stood to pay the most for the crime.

“Rojer, what in the Core are you doing?” Kendall’s harsh whisper at his back made him jump. How had she managed to sneak up on him?

“Mind your own instrument, Kendall,” Rojer said. “Doesn’t concern you.”

“Core it doesn’t,” Kendall said, “if I’m to be your wife.”

Rojer looked at her, and something in his eyes made her draw a sharp breath. “For now,” he said quietly, “all you need to know is that if a demon were about to eat Jasin Goldentone, and all I had to do to save him was play a little ditty, I’d smash my fiddle to a thousand pieces first.”

“Who is Jasin Goldentone?” Amanvah demanded the moment Rojer walked into their chambers. She was in her colored silks, her bare face beautiful even in her anger.

He’d expected it, but is was quick even so. Kendall and his wives had become thick as thieves in the last few weeks.

“Jasin Goldentone is my ripping business and no one else’s,” he snapped.

“Demon’s shit.” Amanvah spat on the floor, surprising Rojer with her vehemence. “We are your jiwah. Your enemies are ours as well.”

Rojer crossed his arms. “Why not ask your dice, if you want to know so much?”

Amanvah gave a tight smile. “Ah, husband. You know I already have. I am offering you this chance to tell me with your own words.”

Rojer gave her a neutral look, considering. No doubt she had indeed cast the dice on the question, but what the alagai hora told her was something else entirely. She might have the whole story—more even than he did—or she might have only a few vague hints with which to pry the information from his lips.

“If you cast the dice, you know all Everam wishes you to,” he countered, knowing it was dangerous ground.

To his surprise, Amanvah’s smile loosened a bit. “You are learning, husband.”

Rojer gave a short bow. “I’ve had excellent teachers.”

“You must learn to trust your jiwah, husband,” Amanvah said, putting a hand on his arm and drawing close. Rojer knew it was a calculated move, just like her anger, but he could not deny its effectiveness.

“I’m just …” Rojer swallowed a lump in his throat. “I’m not ready to talk about it.”

“The hora say there is blood between you,” Amanvah said. “Blood that can only be washed away with blood.”

“You don’t understand—” Rojer began.

Amanvah cut him off with a laugh. “I am the daughter of Ahmann Jardir! You think I do not understand blood feud? It is you who do not understand, husband. You must kill this man. You must do it now, before he has a chance to strike at you and yours again.”

“He wouldn’t dare,” Rojer said. “Not here. Not now.”

“Blood feuds can last generations, husband,” Amanvah said. “Fail to kill him, and it may be his grandchildren who revenge themselves upon yours.”

“And killing him will stop that?” Rojer said. “Or will it just make enemies of his children directly?”

“If he has any, it may be best to kill them, as well,” Amanvah said.

“Creator, are you serious?” Rojer was aghast.

“I will send Coliv,” Amanvah said. “He is a Krevakh Watcher and one of the Spears of the Deliverer. He will never be seen, and to all the witnesses, your enemy will simply have fallen from his horse or choked on a pea.”

“No!” Rojer shouted. “No Watchers. No dama’ting poison. No getting involved—any of you. Jasin Goldentone is mine to revenge upon, or not, and if you cannot respect that, then this marriage is ended.”

There was silence then. Silence so deep Rojer could hear his own heart thumping in his chest. Part of him wanted to take back the words, just to break the silence, but he couldn’t.

They were true.

Amanvah stared at him for a long time, and he met her mask with his own, daring her to blink.

At last she did, lowering her eyes and bowing deeply. Her words dripped venom. “As you wish, husband. His blood is yours alone.”

She looked up at him. “But know this. Every day you allow this man to live, his actions will weigh against you when you walk the lonely path to be judged.”

Rojer snorted. “I’ll take my chances.”

Amanvah blew a short, angry breath through her nostrils, turning on a heel and gliding to her personal chambers and shutting the door.

Rojer wanted to chase her. To tell her loved her and never wanted their marriage to end, but the strength left him and reality closed from all sides.

Jasin Goldentone was in the Hollow, and Rojer could only avoid him for so long.

The invitation came the next morning, a special afternoon meeting of the count’s inner council to formally greet the duke’s herald.

Rojer crumpled the paper in his fist, but was careful not to leave it where it might be found. Amanvah was still in her private chambers, the air chill around the door.

“I’ve got to see the baron,” Rojer told Sikvah. Immediately she moved to lay out the appropriate clothes.

Even Rojer’s wardrobe had seen Amanvah’s touch. She’d been shocked to find the clothes Rojer brought to Everam’s Bounty were the only ones he owned. Not an hour later, Shamavah’s tailors had been stripping and measuring him.

It was good they were building a manse. At the rate Rojer’s closets were filling, they would need to devote an entire wing to his wardrobe.

Not that he was complaining. Rojer now had motley for every occasion, material fine and colors ranging in brightness depending on the nature of the event. Night, he could go a month without wearing the same thing twice. It reminded him of the early days with Arrick, when he had been the duke’s herald and they lived in the palace. Even now, the lie of those times exposed, they remained the happiest days he could remember.

Rojer had attempted to pick his own clothes at first, but his wives quickly put an end to that. In truth, they had a better sense of such things than he.

The jacket and breeches Sikvah chose for an informal meeting with the baron were printed with an intricate pattern of muted color, like a fine Krasian rug. The loose shirt was flawless white silk. It felt like wearing a cloud.

Beneath the flowing cloth, Rojer’s medallion hung heavy on his chest. A Royal Angierian Medal of Valor on a thick braided chain, the heavy gold molding in relief crossed spears behind a shield emblazoned with Duke Rhinebeck’s crest: a leafed crown floating above an ivy-covered throne. Beneath the shield, a banner read:

Arrick Sweetsong

But Rojer wore it in reverse, the medallion’s smooth back etched with four more names:

Kally

Jessum

Geral

Jaycob

The names of those who had had died protecting Rojer. Five names. Five lives, cut short for his. How many was his miserable existence worth?

He pretended to fiddle with his laces for the excuse to touch the medal. For an instant, his fingers brushed the cool metal and a wave of comfort flowed through him, driving away the gripping anxiety. Whatever his brain told him, his heart knew no harm could come to him while he was touching it.

It was a fool’s belief, but Rojer was a fool by trade, so that worked out.

Sikvah pulled his hands away like a mother dressing a toddler, fixing the laces herself. Anxiety clenched him again, and he moved his hand back instinctively. Sikvah delivered a sharp slap to the back of his hand. It stung for a moment, then fell away, numb as she jerked the shirt straight.

Rojer jumped back in surprise. “Sikvah!”

Sikvah’s eyes widened, and she dropped smoothly to her knees, hands on the ground. “I apologize for striking you, honored husband. If you wish to whip me, it is your right …”

Rojer was stunned. “No, I …”

Sikvah bobbed. “Of course. I will inform the dama’ting to issue my penance …”

“No one’s whipping anyone!” Rojer snapped. “What is it with you people? Just forget it and find me another shirt. Something with buttons.”

The moment she turned her back, Rojer’s hand darted to the medallion, clutching as if his life depended on it.

His talisman was one of the few secrets he still held from his wives. They knew the names, his mother and father, their family friend the Messenger, and the two Jongleurs he had apprenticed under. Honored dead.

But the stories behind them, the tales of murder, betrayal, and stupidity, these he kept secret.

Sikvah brought the new shirt, a voluminous affair with heavy lace cravat. It was more ostentatious than the occasion merited, but perfect to put a fog over his chest, that he might easily stroke his medallion without drawing attention.

Had she done it on purpose? When Sikvah left the third button from the top undone, Rojer knew she understood, and his heart ached.

Everyone he had ever loved in his life had died and left him alone, but what if the debt was still not paid in full? Would it be Sikvah to die for him next? Amanvah? Kendall? He couldn’t bear the thought.

He realized he was clutching the medallion in a grip so hard it hurt. How long since he had done that? Months. After the attack at new moon, very little frightened him anymore.

But he was frightened now. Thamos had been cold since Rojer refused to take commission as royal herald of Hollow County. He would not be moved to turn on his brother’s herald over a tale of some murdered street performer.

Worse, Jasin might well have arrived with an arrest warrant, for him or his wives. The daughter and niece of the Krasian leader would be valuable hostages, especially now that the Krasians had invaded Lakton.

An accusation against Jasin now might get Rojer nothing but the Herald’s ire, and Rojer knew well how Jasin Goldentone dealt with ire. He embraced it, stroked it, nourished it.

And then, when you thought he must surely have forgotten, it was knives on a darkened street.

Rojer choked, his next breaths came out in a fit of coughing.

“Husband, are you well?” Sikvah asked. “I will inform the dama’ting …”

“I’m fine!” Rojer pulled away, straightening his cravat. The medallion pulled at him, but he ignored the need, reaching for his fiddle and cloak. “Just need a sip of wine.”

“Water would be best.” Sikvah moved to fill a cup. His jiwah no longer tried to stop him drinking alcohol, but neither did they approve.

“Wine,” Rojer said again. Sikvah bowed and fetched the proper skin. He ignored the cup she offered, taking the skin whole and heading for the door.

“Husband, when will you return?” Sikvah called.

“Not until late in the day,” and Rojer was through the door, closing it behind him.

Coliv stood in a shadowed nook just outside the door to the apartments. The Watcher gave Rojer a nod of acknowledgment, but said nothing.

“Post extra Sharum around the restaurant,” Rojer said. “We have enemies in the day.”

“All men have enemies in the day,” Coliv said. “It is only in the night we become brothers.”

“Just post the ripping men,” Rojer snapped.

Coliv gave a slight bow. “It is already done, son of Jeph. The Holy Daughter issued these commands yesterday.”

Rojer sighed. “Course she did.”

Coliv tilted his head. “This man, Goldentone. He owes you a blood debt, yes?”

Rojer kept his face blank. “Yes. But I don’t want you and my jiwah involved.”

Coliv bowed again, deeper this time, and for two heartbeats longer. “I apologize for underestimating you, son of Jessum. You greenlanders do know something of the Sharum way. There is no honor in a man sending assassins to collect his blood debts.”

Rojer blinked. This from the master assassin? “Then don’t get involved. Even if Amanvah commands it.”

Coliv bowed one last time, shallow and brief. “There is no honor in assassination, master, but it is sometimes necessary. If the Holy Daughter commands I get involved, I will be involved.”

Rojer swallowed. Part of him thrilled at the thought of Coliv putting his spear through the hearts of Jasin and his apprentices, but it wouldn’t end there. Jasin had family. Powerful family with deep ties to the ivy throne. Blood would be paid in blood.

He took the steps three at a time, practically bouncing at the landing and out the back door to Shamavah’s stables. Krasian children in tan tended the animals, and they all hopped when they saw him, rushing to be the first to help.

The quickest proved to be young Shalivah, Drillmaster Kaval’s granddaughter. The drillmaster, too, had died for Rojer. As had Amanvah’s bodyguard Enkido. Two more names to etch into the medallion. Seven lives now, paid for his one.

“Will master need his mottley coach?” the girl asked, her words quick and heavily accented.

Rojer pulled a bright Jongleur’s mask over his face in an instant. She didn’t see him slip the tiny flower from his bright new bag of marvels. To her it appeared from thin air, and she gasped as he gave it to her.

“Motley, Shalivah, not mottley. Motley means ‘colorful.’ Mottley means ‘spotted.’ Do you understand?”

The girl nodded, and Rojer produced a sugar candy. “Say it. Motley.”

The girl smiled, leaping for the candy. Rojer was not a tall man, but even he could keep it from the child’s reach. “Motley!” she cried. “Motley! Motley! Motley!”

Rojer flipped her the candy. Her squeal of glee brought the attention of the other children, looking at him expectantly.

He did not disappoint. More candies were already hidden in his hand. He gave a stage laugh to cover a heavy heart as he spun, nimbly flicking a candy unerringly into the hands of each.

Their families bled for him, and he repaid them in candy.

The new baron shifted uncomfortably at his great goldwood desk. His giant fist made the quill look like a hummingbird feather as he scrawled something approximating a signature to the seemingly endless stack of papers slid before him by Squire Emet, a minor Angierian lordling Thamos had appointed the baron’s secretary.

“Rojer!” Gared cried, rising immediately to his feet as he entered the office.

“My lord,” the secretary began.

“Rojer’s got important business, Emet. Yu’ll have to come back later.” Gared loomed over the secretary, and Emet was wise enough to gather his papers and whisk out of the room.

Gared closed the heavy doors, putting his back to them and blowing out a breath as if he had just escaped a reap of field demons. “Thank the Creator. Ready to throw that whole desk out the window, I had to sign one more paper.”

Rojer’s eyes flicked to the great heavy desk and the window several feet away. If anyone alive could do it, it was Gared Cutter.

Rojer grinned. He always felt safer around Gared. “Always happy to provide an escape from paperwork.”

Gared grinned. “You come by around eleven each morning with a new emergency, I’ll thank you for it. Drink?”

“Night, yes.” Rojer had drained the skin, but wine was slow. Gared had developed a taste for Angierian brandy, and kept a bottle in his office. Rojer moved to the service, pouring two glasses. He was quick, and Gared didn’t notice as he drained one and refilled it before bringing them over.

They clicked glasses and drank. Gared took only a pull, but Rojer shot his, moving to fill a third. “Today it’s not a lie. Got an emergency, sure enough.”

“Ay?” Gared asked. “Sun’s up and nothing’s aflame, so it can’t be too bad. Let’s have a pipe and talk about it, before we’re off to meet the duke’s herald. You think his voice really sounds as good as gold?”

Rojer shot the next glass, filling a fourth before coming to sit on one of the chairs before the great desk. Gared took the other, packing his pipe. Gared Cutter wasn’t one to put a desk between him and anyone else.

Rojer took the offered leaf and packed his own pipe. “You recall how I met Leesha in the hospit?”

“Everyone knows that story,” Gared said. “Start of the tale of how you met the Deliverer.”

Rojer didn’t have the strength to argue. “Remember you asked who put me there?” Gared nodded.

Rojer emptied his glass. “It was the duke’s herald with the golden voice.”

Gared’s face darkened instantly, like a father finding his daughter with a black eye. He balled a meaty fist. “He’ll be lucky if all the Gatherers in the Hollow can stitch him back together when I’m done with him.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Rojer said. “You’re the Baron of Cutter’s Hollow, not the bouncer at Smitt’s.”

“Can’t just let something like that lie,” Gared said.

Rojer looked at him. “Jasin Goldentone is the duke’s herald, the representative of the ivy throne in the Hollow. “Anything you say to him, you are saying to Duke Rhinebeck himself. Anything you do to him, you do to Rhinebeck himself.”

He gave Gared a look that set even the menacing Cutter aback. “Do you have any idea what the duke would do to you—to the Hollow—if you beat his ripping herald to death?”

Gared’s brow furrowed. “So we should get someone else to do it?”

Rojer closed his eyes and counted to ten. “Just let me handle it.”

Gared looked at him doubtfully. Rojer was no fighter. “Want to handle it yurself, why you tellin’ me?”

“I don’t want you to do anything to Jasin,” Rojer said. “But I don’t expect him to be so magnanimous.”

Gared blinked. “Mag-what?”

“Generous,” Rojer supplied. “He might be worried I’m going to do something, and come after me and mine. I’d sleep better if you could spare a few Cutters to keep an eye on his people.”

Gared nodded. “Course. But Rojer …”

“I know, I know,” Rojer said. “Can’t let it fester forever.”

“Stinks already,” Gared said. “Wish the Deliverer were here. He could rip that skunk’s head clean off, and no one would spit.”

Rojer nodded. That had been his plan since he’d first met Arlen Bales.

But the Warded Man was never coming back.

Rojer shifted in his seat. Tension was thick in the air of the count’s council chamber as they waited on Thamos and Jasin. Lord Arther and Captain Gamon were even stiffer than usual, though it was unclear if it was news from Angiers or simply the presence of the royal emissary. Inquisitor Hayes looked as if he’d just bitten a sour apple.

Even Leesha had come out of hiding for the meeting. She hadn’t left her cottage in the fortnight since she’d fainted in her yard. The Gatherers patrolling her bedside had denied even Rojer’s visits. Even now, Darsy guarded her like Evin Cutter’s wolfhound.

It wasn’t hard to see why. Leesha was pale, face puffy and eyes bloodshot. Not one for makeup, the thick powder on her face spoke volumes, as did the tendons stretched like tightropes on her neck.

Was she ill? Leesha might be the most powerful healer in Thesa, but she had more on her shoulders than even Rojer, and she’d been pushing herself hard. She gave Rojer a weak smile, and he threw a bright—if completely false—one back at her.

Beside him, Gared seemed ready to crawl out of his skin. He’d never let any harm come to Rojer, but the big Cutter had a tendency to break things he meant to fix.

Next to the Baron, Erny Paper and Smitt had their heads together in low conversation. It was doubtful they knew half the drama in the room, but the two men could read the tension well enough to know the duke’s herald was not making a social call.

Hary Roller put a light hand on Rojer’s arm. The old Jongleur knew more of Rojer’s history with Jasin than any present, but he had his mask on, and not even Rojer could see his true feelings.

“He won’t start trouble if you don’t start it first.” Hary’s trained voice offered the words for the two of them alone.

“You think he’s had his blood and everything’s sunny now?” Rojer asked.

“Course not,” Hary said. “Secondsong never forgets a slight.”

Secondsong. It was what the other Jongleurs called Jasin Goldentone, back when Arrick Sweetsong had been the duke’s herald. It was said he got more patrons from his uncle Janson’s connections than any gold in his voice.

Privately, at least. No one called Jasin “Secondsong” to his face unless they were ready for a fight. Jasin’s uncle was good for more than bookings. Master Jaycob hadn’t been the first—or the last—time Jasin had gotten away with murder.

Hary seemed to read his mind. “You’re not some two-klat street performer anymore, Rojer. Something happens to you, every spear in the Hollow will be out for justice.”

“All bright and sunny for justice,” Rojer said, “but I’ll be just as dead.”

Just then, Arther and Gamon scrambled to their feet, followed quickly by the rest of the councilors as Count Thamos and Jasin Goldentone swept into the room.

Goldentone still had the same oily arrogance Rojer remembered, but service to the throne had obviously agreed with him. He had been thinner the last time Rojer saw him.

Rojer kept his Jongleur’s mask in place, open eyes and a painted-on smile, but inside, he thought he might vomit. He could feel the weight of the knives in his forearm sheaths. There were Wooden Soldiers posted at the door, but neither they nor the officers at the table could move faster than Rojer could throw.

But what then?

Idiot, take your own advice, Rojer scolded himself. Maybe you deserve nothing better than a taste of vengeance and a quick death at the hands of the Wooden Soldiers, but what will happen to Amanvah and Sikvah if you kill the duke’s herald?

Rhinebeck would probably consider Goldentone a fair trade for the excuse to arrest the Krasian princesses and hold them hostage.

So he sat and did nothing, even as the coreling in his breast clawed and shrieked, threatening to tear him to pieces.

Jasin’s eyes moved to meet the gaze of each council member in turn as Arther announced him. His gaze lingered a moment on Rojer, and he gave a polite smile.

Rojer longed to cut it from his face. Instead, he smiled in return.

When the introduction was done, Jasin made a show of opening an ornate scroll tube and breaking the wax of the royal seal that kept the paper bound. He unrolled it, his voice rising to fill the room.

“Greetings from the ivy throne to Hollow County in this year of our Creator, 333 AR,” he began.

“His Grace, Duke Rhinebeck the Third, Guardian of the Forest Fortress, Wearer of the Wooden Crown, and Lord of All Angiers, extends his congratulations to his brother and all the leaders and people of Hollow Country for seeing to the safe return of General Gared and Royal Gatherer Leesha from Krasian lands, and the successful defense of the Hollow in the face of the greatest demon attack in centuries.

“But with so many changes and the news from Lakton, there is still much to be done. His Highness requests and commands an immediate audience with Count Thamos and Baron Gared, as well as Mistress Leesha, Rojer Halfgrip, and the Krasian princess Amanvah.”

The coreling inside Rojer stopped its struggle, drowning in those last words. Jasin Goldentone was a tiny subplot of the drama unfolding. Rojer, as well. All of them would go to Angiers—how could they refuse?—but Amanvah would not be coming back. She, and Rojer, would likely be held until they died, or the Krasian army broke down the city walls.

Jasin met his eyes with another pursed smile, but this time Rojer could not muster the strength to return it.

Rojer’s stomach churned as Jasin rolled the scroll, breaking the seal on yet another.

“Her Grace, Duchess Mum Araine, mother to His Grace, Duke Rhinebeck the Third, Guardian of the Forest Fortress, Wearer of the Wooden Crown, and Lord of All Angiers, congratulates Baron Gared Cutter on his change of status. To properly introduce him to the peerage and offer opportunity to present the visiting Princess Amanvah, she will be throwing a Bachelor’s Ball in the baron’s honor upon his arrival in Angiers.”

“Ay, what?” Gared started, and there was laughter around the room until he balled his great fists on the table.

“Apologies, Baron,” Thamos said, but the laughter had not left his voice. “It means my mother is using your visit as an excuse to throw a party.”

Gared relaxed a little. “Dun’t sound so bad.”

“A party where she will invite every unmarried girl in Angiers with an ounce of royal blood and do her best to broker your marriage to one of them.”

Gared’s jaw dropped.

“There will be food, of course,” Thamos said when the baron had no reply. His eyes sparkled with the first light they’d shown in a fortnight. He was enjoying this.

“And music,” Jasin added. “I shall perform myself,” he winked, “and let you know which maids are the best to court.”

Gared swallowed. “What if I don’t want any of ’em?”

“Then she’ll keep summoning you to Angiers and throwing balls until you do,” Thamos said. “I assure you, she can be relentless on this subject.”

“And why should she not?” Inquisitor Hayes asked, looking at Gared. “Your barony needs an heir, and you a wife to tend your home and see that he is educated and raised to lead when you go to join the Creator,” he drew a ward in the air, “Creator willing, after a long life and many grandchildren.”

“He’s right, Gared.” They were Leesha’s first words of the day, and all turned her way.

The look Leesha gave Gared was withering, and he shrank before it. “You’ve been alone too long. Lonely folk do foolish things. Time you settled down.”

Gared paled slightly, nodding. Rojer was amazed. He knew the two of them had a history, but this …

Thamos cleared his throat. “Settled, then. Lord Arther will be acting count in my absence. His decisions will need to be ratified by this council. The baron and Mistress Paper will appoint representatives to speak in their place.”

“Darsy Cutter,” Leesha said.

Darsy looked at her, eyes pleading. “Wouldn’t Mistress Jizell be a better …”

“Darsy Cutter,” Leesha said again, with an air of finality.

“Yes, mistress.” Darsy nodded, but her broad shoulders slumped a bit.

“Dug and Merrem Butcher,” Gared said.

“That’s two—” Captain Gamon began.

“They’re a matched set,” Gared cut him off. “I’m still general, as well as baron. I should get two.”

Thamos’ eyes flicked around the room, reading the others without need for debate. Arther and Gamon were not well loved in the Hollow. “The baron is correct.”

Arther scowled. “Which shall be general and which baron?”

Gared shrugged. “Take your pick.”

The moment the count dismissed them, Rojer was out of his chair, not wanting to spend a second longer in Jasin’s presence than necessary. He was moving for the door when Leesha’s voice checked him.

“Will you join me for lunch, Rojer?”

Rojer stopped and took a breath, turning back with a bright smile painted on his face as he gave his best court bow. “Of course, mistress.” He put out his arm and she took it, but she refused to pick up her stately pace however he tugged.

They climbed into Leesha’s coach, Wonda taking seat next to the driver and leaving them alone in the carriage. The air was chill outside, winter threatening more with each day, but the inside of Leesha’s coach was warm. Still, he shivered.

She knows, Rojer thought as she looked at him. Leesha had always known more than she should about most everything, her guesses almost as good as Amanvah’s dice at ferreting out information one would prefer to keep hidden. She’d always wondered what put him in her hospit, and set him running from Angiers the moment his bones had healed. Most likely she’d see the hate in his eyes and put the pieces together at last. In a moment she would ask, and perhaps it was time to give her the whole story. If anyone deserved it, it was Leesha Paper, who had stitched his broken body back together.

Though many times since, he’d wished she’d let him die.

Leesha took a deep breath. Here it comes, Rojer thought.

“I’m pregnant.”

Rojer blinked. It was so easy to forget his wasn’t the only drama playing out. “I was wondering when you’d get around to telling me. Before the babe came, I’d hoped.”

Now it was Leesha’s turn to blink. “Amanvah told you?”

“Ent stupid, Leesha,” Rojer said. “Jongleurs hear every rumor in the Hollow. Think I’d miss that one? Once it was in my head, the signs were everywhere. You’re pale and never so much as look at food in the morning. Always touching your stomach. Scolding every servant that brings you meat that hasn’t been cooked to ripping char. And mood swings. Night, I thought you were dramatic before.”

Leesha’s mouth was a tight line. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Waiting for you to trust me,” Rojer said, “but I guess you don’t.”

“I’m trusting you now,” Leesha said.

Rojer gave her a tolerant look. “You’re trusting me now because half the town already knows, and you don’t think you can keep a lid on the pot much longer. Night, even Amanvah knew! Had to act all surprised when she told me.”

“You lied to your wife for me?” Leesha asked.

Rojer crossed his arms. “Course I did. Whose side do you think I’m on? I love Amanvah and Sikvah, but I’m not a ripping traitor. You’ve waited to the last corespawned minute to trust me, when I could have been helping you all along. Could’ve made you a ripping folk hero by now for carrying the heir to the Krasian throne. Instead, you’ve got everyone thinking it’s the ivy throne’s heir you’re carrying. Do you know what the Rhinebeck family will do to you when they find out they’ve been played? To the child?”

“We’ll soon find out,” Leesha said. “I told Thamos the truth.”

“Night,” Rojer said. “That would explain how he’s been acting. Was hoping it was just that Royals hate a crank bow wedding.”

“I hurt him, Rojer,” Leesha said. “He’s a good man, and I’ve broken his heart.”

Rojer almost choked. “That’s what you’re worried over? All the Core about to break loose around you, and you’re worried about Thamos’ feelings?”

Leesha pulled Bruna’s shawl off the seat next to her, pulling it tightly around her like a Cloak of Unsight. “I’m worried about everything, Rojer. Myself, my baby, the Hollow. It’s too much, and I don’t know what to do anymore. I just know I can’t keep lying. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. I should have come to you sooner, but I was ashamed.”

Rojer sighed. “Don’t add my guilt to your pile of worries. I’ve kept some important things from you, too.”

Leesha looked up at him, and her tone sharpened like a mother who’d just heard a crash in the next room. “What things?”

“The night we met,” Rojer said. “When Jaycob and I were brought to the hospit.”

Leesha’s face softened immediately. She and Jizell had spent hours cutting, stitching, and casting him back together that night. And he was the lucky one.

“It was Jasin Goldentone,” Rojer said. “Wasn’t royal herald then, just a pompous ass whose nose I broke in a fight. He and his apprentices started following me and Jaycob, watching our performances, and then, one night, they caught us alone. Beat Jaycob to death and made me watch before trying to do the same to me. Just a lucky break the watch came by in time.”

Leesha scowled. “We can’t let that lie, Rojer.”

Rojer laughed. “That’s what Gared said.”

“You told Gared before me?” Leesha almost shrieked.

Rojer stared at her until she had the decency to drop her eyes. “I’ll go to Thamos,” she said at last. “I am a witness to the event. He’ll have to listen.”

Rojer shook his head. “You’ll do no such thing. I doubt Thamos is in a mood to do either of us the slightest favor right now, and you’re asking for the mother of all boons.”

“Why?” Leesha demanded. “Why is putting a murderer in prison such a great boon?”

“Because Jasin Goldentone is First Minister Janson’s nephew,” Rojer said. “His signature is on the payroll of every magistrate in the city, and the royal family couldn’t find their stockings without him. You might as well accuse Rhinebeck himself. And with what proof? The only witness was me. With a snap of his ripping fingers, Jasin can have a thousand swear he was elsewhere on whatever night it was.”

“So you’re just going to let it go?” Leesha asked. “That’s not like you, Rojer.”

“Ent letting anything go,” Rojer said. “Just saying Thamos ent our ally here.”

He chuckled. “Used to imagine I might get Arlen to throw him off a cliff. You can get away with things like that when folk think you’re the Deliverer.”

“Killing someone is never the answer,” Leesha said.

Rojer rolled his eyes. “In any event, secret’s best kept, for now. So long as we do nothing, Goldentone’s got to worry about what we might. Once there’s a move, he can counter.”

“If he’s so untouchable, what’s he worried about?” Leesha asked.

“He’s not worried about punishment,” Rojer said. “But even he doesn’t want to cross the Jongleurs’ Guild and Guildmaster Cholls. Cholls saw me hit Jasin, and heard his threats. He’s the only one whose word might stand.”

Leesha sighed. “This is going to be an interesting trip.”

“That’s undersaid.” Rojer took out his trusted flask, shaking it. Not a drop left. “Got anything back at your cottage stronger than tea?”