The Warded Man (Demon Cycle, #1)(97)

“Rojer Halfgrip!” Arrick called. “With only ten years and eight fingers, he’s still deadlier with a knife than any grown man!”

The crowd applauded. Rojer held his crippled hand up for all to see, and the crowd ooohed and aahed over it. Already, Arrick’s suggestion had most of them believing he made that catch and throw with his crippled hand. They would tell others, and exaggerate in the telling. Rather than risk Rojer being labeled by the crowd, Arrick had labeled him first.

“Rojer Halfgrip,” he murmured, tasting the name on his tongue.

“Hup!” Arrick called, and Rojer turned as his master flung the arrow at him. He slapped his hands together, catching the missile just before it struck his face. He spun again, putting his back to the crowd. With his good hand, he threw the arrow between his legs back toward his master, but when he finished the move and faced the crowd, his crippled right hand was extended. “Hup!” he called back.

Arrick feigned fear, dropping the blades he was juggling, but the stool fell into his hands just in time for the arrow to stick in its center. Arrick studied it as if amazed at his own good fortune. He flicked his wrist as he pulled the arrow free, and it became a bouquet of flowers, which he bestowed on the prettiest woman in the crowd. More coins clattered into the hat.

Seeing his master moving on to magic, Rojer ran to the bag of marvels for the implements Arrick would need for his tricks. As he did, there came a cry from the crowd.

“Play your fiddle!” a man called. As he did, there was a general buzz of agreement. Rojer looked up to see the same man who had called so loudly for Sweetsong the day before.

“In the mood for music, are we?” Arrick asked the crowd, not missing a beat. He was answered with a cheer, so Arrick went to the bag and took the fiddle, tucking it under his chin and turning back to the audience. But before he could put bow to string, the man cried out.

“Not you, the boy!” he bellowed. “Let Halfgrip play!”

Arrick looked to Rojer, his face a mask of irritation as the crowd began chanting “Halfgrip! Halfgrip!” Finally he shrugged, handing his apprentice the instrument.

Rojer took the fiddle with shaking hands. “Never upstage your master” was a rule apprentices learned early. But the crowd was calling for him to play, and again the bow felt so right in his crippled hand, free of the cursed glove. He closed his eyes, feeling the stillness of the strings under his fingertips, and then brought them to a low hum. The crowd quieted as he played softly for a few moments, stroking the strings like the back of a cat, making it purr.

The fiddle came alive in his hands, then, 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 sang soprano 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.