The Demon Cycle Books 1-3 and Novellas: The Painted Man, The Desert Spear, The Daylight War plus The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold and Messenger’s Legacy. Peter V. Brett
Rojer played more jarring and sour notes, driving the demons further and further off. They howled and put clawed hands to their heads as if in pain.
But they did not flee. The demons backed away from the circle slowly until they found a tolerable distance. There they waited, black eyes reflecting the firelight.
The sight chilled Rojer’s heart. They knew he couldn’t play forever.
Arrick had not been exaggerating when he said they would be treated as heroes in the hamlets. The people of Cricket Run had no Jongleurs of their own, and many remembered Arrick from his time as the Duke’s herald, a decade gone.
There was a small inn for housing cattle drivers and produce farmers heading to and from Woodsend and Shepherd’s Dale, and they were welcomed there and given free room and board. The whole town showed up to watch them perform, drinking enough ale to more than repay the innkeep. In fact, everything went flawlessly, until it came time to pass the hat.
‘An ear of corn!’ Arrick shouted, shaking it in Rojer’s face. ‘Whar we sposa to do wi’that?’
‘We could always eat it,’ Rojer offered. His master glared at him and continued to pace.
Rojer had liked Cricket Run. The people there were simple and good-hearted, and knew how to enjoy life. In Angiers, crowds pressed close to hear his fiddle, nodding and clapping, but he had never seen folk so quick to dance as the Runners. Before his fiddle was halfway from its case, they were backing up, making room. Before long, they were reeling and spinning and laughing uproariously, embracing his music fully and flowing wherever it took them.
They cried without shame at Arrick’s sad ballads, and laughed hysterically at their bawdy jokes and mummery. They were, in Rojer’s estimation, everything one could ask in an audience.
When the act was over, chants of ‘Sweetsong and Halfgrip!’ were deafening. They were inundated with offers of lodging, and the wine and food overflowed. Rojer was swept behind a haystack by a pair of raven-eyed Runner girls, sharing kisses until his head spun.
Arrick was less pleased.
‘How could I have forgotten what it was like?’ he lamented.
He was referring, of course, to the collection hat. There was no coin in the hamlets, or little enough. What there was went for necessities, seed and tools and wardposts. A pair of wooden klats settled to the bottom of the hat, but that wasn’t even enough to pay for the wine Arrick had drunk on the journey from Angiers. For the most part, the Runners paid in grain, with the occasional bag of salt or spice thrown in.
‘Barter!’ Arrick spat the word like a curse. ‘No vintner in Angiersh will take payment in bagsh of barley!’
The Runners had paid in more than just grain. They gave gifts of salted meat and fresh bread, a horn of clotted cream and a basket of fruit. Warm quilts. Fresh patches for their boots. Whatever goods or services they could spare were offered with gratitude. Rojer hadn’t eaten so well since the Duke’s palace, and for the life of him, he could not understand his master’s distress. What was coin for, if not to buy the very things that the Runners gave in abundance?
‘Leasht they had wine,’ Arrick grumbled. Rojer eyed the skin nervously as his master took a pull, knowing it would only amplify Arrick’s distress, but he said nothing. No amount of wine could distress Arrick so much as the suggestion that he should not drink so much wine.
‘I liked it there,’ Rojer dared. ‘I wish we could have stayed longer.’
‘What d’you know?’ Arrick snapped. ‘You’re jussa stupid boy.’ He groaned as if in pain. ‘Woodsend’ll be no better,’ he lamented, looking down the road, ‘and Sheepshagger’s Dale’ll be worsht of all! What wash I thinking, keeping this stupid circle?!’
He kicked at the precious plates of the portable circle, knocking the wards askew, but he did not seem to notice or care, stumbling drunkenly about the fire.
Rojer gasped. Sunset was mere moments away, but he said nothing, darting over to the spot and frantically correcting the damage, glancing fearfully at the horizon.
He finished not a moment too soon. The corelings rose as he was still smoothing the rope. He fell back as the first coreling leapt at him, crying out as the wards flared to life.
‘Damn you!’ Arrick screamed at a demon as it charged him. The drunken Jongleur stuck his chin out in defiance and cackled as the coreling smashed against the wardnet.
‘Master, please,’ Rojer begged, taking Arrick’s arm and pulling him towards the centre of the ring.
‘Oh, Halfgrip knowsh besht, now?’ he sneered, yanking his arm away and almost falling down in the process. ‘Poor drunk Shweetsong dun’t know t’keep away from coreling clawsh?’
‘It’s not like that,’ Rojer protested.
‘Then wha’s it like?’ Arrick demanded. ‘Y’think tha’ ’cos the crowds cheer yur name that y’d be anything without me?’
‘No,’ Rojer said.
‘Damn right,’ Arrick muttered, pulling again on his skin and stumbling away.
Rojer’s throat tightened, and he reached into his secret pocket for his talisman. He rubbed the smooth wood and silky hair with his thumb, trying to call upon its power.
‘Tha’s right, call yer mum!’ Arrick shouted, turning back and pointing at the little doll. ‘F’get who raised you, who taught you everything y’know! I gave up my life for you!’
Rojer gripped his talisman tighter, feeling his mother’s presence, hearing her last words. He thought again of how Arrick had shoved her to the ground, and an angry lump formed in his throat. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You were the only one who didn’t.’
Arrick scowled and advanced on the boy. Rojer shrank back, but the circle was small, and there was nowhere to go. Outside the circle, demons paced hungrily.
‘Gimme that!’ Arrick shouted angrily, grabbing at Rojer’s hands.
‘It’s mine!’ Rojer cried. They struggled for a moment, but Arrick was larger and stronger, and had two full hands. He snatched the talisman away at last and threw it into the fire.
‘No!’ Rojer shouted, diving towards the flames, but it was too late. The red hair ignited immediately, and before he could find a twig to fish the talisman out, the wood caught. Rojer knelt in the dirt and watched it burn, dumbfounded. His hands began to shake.
Arrick ignored him, stumbling up to a wood demon that was hunched at the circle’s edge, clawing at the wards. ‘It’s your fault thish happened t’me!’ he screamed. ‘Your fault I wash shaddled with an ungrateful boy and lost my commishon! Yoursh!’
The coreling shrieked at him, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth. Arrick roared right back, smashing his wineskin over the creature’s head. The skin burst, spraying them both with blood-red wine and tanned leather.
‘My wine!’ Arrick cried, realizing suddenly what he had done. He moved to cross the wards as if he could in some way undo the damage.
‘Master, no!’ Rojer cried. He dived into a tumble, reaching up with his good hand to grab Arrick’s ratty ponytail as he kicked at the backs of his master’s knees. Arrick was yanked back away from the wards and landed heavily on top of his apprentice.
‘Get’cher handsh offa me!’ Arrick cried, not realizing that Rojer had just saved his life. He gripped the boy’s shirt as he lurched to his feet, shoving him right out of the circle.
Coreling and human alike froze in that moment. Awareness dawned on Arrick’s face even as