The Warded Man (Demon Cycle, #1)(52)

Geral picked Rojer up and sat him atop his huge destrier. “Hold tight, boy,” he said, “we’re going for a ride!” Rojer laughed and pulled the destrier’s mane as Geral and his father led the horses to the inn. Arrick strode ahead of them like a man followed by servants.

Kally was waiting at the door. “Geral!” she called. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“And who is this?” Arrick asked, his hands flicking quickly to smooth his hair and clothes.

“This is Kally,” Jessum said, adding “my wife” when the twinkle in Arrick’s eye did not diminish.

Arrick seemed not to hear, striding up to her and throwing his multicolored cloak back as he made a leg.

“A pleasure, madam,” he said, kissing her hand. “I am Arrick Sweetsong, Master Jongleur and herald to Duke Rhinebeck the Third, guardian of the forest fortress, wearer of the wooden crown, and Lord of all Angiers. His Grace will be pleased to see such beauty when he visits your fine inn.”

Kally covered her mouth, her pale cheeks coloring to match her red hair. She made a clumsy curtsy in return.

“You and Geral must be tired,” she said. “Come in and I’ll serve some hot soup while I prepare supper.”

“We would be delighted, good lady,” Arrick said, bowing again.

“Geral promised to look over the wards for us before dark, Kal,” Jessum said.

“What?” Kally asked, pulling her eyes from Arrick’s handsome smile. “Oh, well you two stake the horses and see to that while I show Master Arrick a room and start supper,” she said.

“A lovely idea,” Arrick said, offering her an arm as they went inside.

“Keep an eye on Arrick with your wife,” Geral muttered. “They call him ‘Sweetsong’ because his voice will make any woman sweet between the legs, and I’ve never known him to stop at a wedding vow.”

Jessum scowled. “Rojer,” he said, pulling him off the horse, “run in and stay with Mum.”

Rojer nodded, hitting the ground running.

“The last Jongleur ate fire,” Rojer said. “Can you eat fire?”

“That I can,” Arrick said, “and spit it back out like a flame demon.” Rojer clapped his hands and Arrick turned back to gaze at Kally, who was bending behind the bar 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!” Jessum called. 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.