“Are you all right?” Leesha asked.
“What?” Rojer replied.
“Your hands are shaking,” Leesha said.
He looked at his hands on her waist, and saw that she was right. “It’s nothing,” he managed. “I just felt a chill out of nowhere.”
“I hate that,” Leesha said, but Rojer barely heard. He stared at his hands, trying to will them to stillness.
You’re an actor! he scolded himself. Act brave!
He thought of Marko Rover, the brave explorer in his stories. Rojer had described the man and mummed his adventures so many times, every trait and mannerism was second nature to him. His back straightened, and his hands ceased to shake.
“Let me know when you get tired,” he said, “and I’ll take over the reins.”
“I thought you’ve never ridden before,” Leesha said.
“You learn things by doing them,” Rojer said, quoting the line Marko Rover used whenever he encountered something new.
Marko Rover was never afraid to do things he’d never done before.
With Rojer at the reins, they made better time, but even so, they barely made it to Farmer’s Stump before dusk. They stabled the horse and made their way to the inn.
“You a Jongleur?” the innkeep asked, taking in Rojer’s motley.
“Rojer Halfgrip,” Rojer said, “out of Angiers and points west.”
“Never heard of you,” the innkeep grunted, “but the room’s free if you put on a show.”
Rojer looked to Leesha, and when she shrugged and nodded, he smiled, pulling out his bag of marvels.
Farmer’s Stump was a small cluster of buildings and houses, all connected by warded boardwalks. Unlike any other village Rojer had ever been to, the Stumpers went outside at night, walking freely—if hastily—from building to building.
The freedom meant a full taproom, which pleased Rojer well. He performed for the first time in months, but it felt natural, and he soon had the entire room clapping and laughing at tales of Jak Scaletongue and the Warded Man.
When he returned to his seat, Leesha’s face was a little flushed with wine. “You were wonderful,” she said. “I knew you would be.”
Rojer beamed, and was about to say something when a pair of men came over, bearing a handful of pitchers. They handed one to Rojer, and another to Leesha.
“Just a thanks for the show,” the lead man said. “I know it ent much …”
“It’s wonderful, thank you,” Rojer said. “Please, join us.” He gestured to the empty seats at their table. The two men sat.
“What brings you through the Stump?” the first man asked. He was short, with a thick black beard. His companion was taller, burlier, and mute.
“We’re heading to Cutter’s Hollow,” Rojer said. “Leesha is an Herb Gatherer, going to help them fight the flux.”
“Hollow’s a long way,” the man with the black beard said. “How’ll you last the nights?”
“Don’t fear for us,” Rojer said. “We have a Messenger’s circle.”
“Portable circle?” the man asked in surprise. “That must’a cost a pretty pile.”
Rojer nodded. “More than you know,” he said.
“Well, we won’t keep you from yer beds,” the man said, he and his companion rising from the table. “You’ll want an early start.” They moved away, going to join a third man at another table as Rojer and Leesha finished their drinks and headed to their room.
CHAPTER 27
NIGHTFALL
332 AR
“Look at me! I’m a Jongleur!” said one of the men, plopping the belled motley cap on his head and prancing around the road. The black-bearded man barked a laugh, but their third companion, larger than both of them combined, said nothing. All were smiling.
“I’d like to know what that witch threw at me,” the black-bearded man said. “Dunked my whole head in the stream, and it still feels like my eyes are on fire.” He held up the circle and the reins of the horse, grinning. “Still, an easy take like that only comes along once a’life.”
“Be months before we need t’work again,” the man in the motley cap agreed, jingling the purse of coins, “and not a scratch on us!” He jumped up and clicked his heels.
“Maybe not a scratch on you,” chuckled the black-bearded man, “but I’ve a few on my back! That arse was worth nearly as much as the circle, even if that dust she threw in my eyes made it so I could barely see what went where.” The man in the motley cap laughed, and their giant mute companion clapped his hands with a grin.
“Should’ve taken her with us,” the man in the motley cap said. “Gets cold in that miserable cave.”
“Don’t be stupid,” the black-bearded man said. “We got a horse and a Messenger circle, now. We don’t need to stay in the cave no more, and that’s best. Word in the Stump’s that the duke’s noticin’ them just leaving the town gettin’ hit. We go south first thing come morning, before we’ve got Rhinebeck’s guards on our heels.”
The men were so busy with their discussion, they didn’t notice the man riding down the road toward them until he was just a dozen yards away. In the waning light, he seemed wraithlike, wrapped in flowing robes and astride a dark horse, moving in the shadow of the trees beside the forest road.
When they did take note of him, the mirth on their faces fell away, replaced with looks of challenge. The black-bearded man dropped the portable circle to the ground and pulled a heavy cudgel from the horse, advancing on the stranger. He was squat and thickly set, with thinning hair above his long, unkempt beard. Behind him, the mute raised a club the size of a small tree, and the man in the motley cap brandished a spear, the head nicked and burred.
“This here’s our road,” the black-bearded man explained to the stranger. “We’re fine to share, like, but there’s a tax.”
In answer, the stranger stepped his horse from the shadows.
A quiver of heavy arrows hung from his saddle, the bow strung and in easy reach. A spear as long as a lance rested in a harness on the other side, a rounded shield beside it. Strapped behind his seat, several shorter spears jutted, their points glittering wickedly in the setting sun.
But the stranger reached for no weapon, merely letting his hood slip back a bit. The men’s eyes widened, and their leader backed away, scooping up the portable circle.
“Might let you pass just the once,” he amended, glancing back at the others. Even the giant had gone pale with fear. They kept their weapons ready, but carefully edged around the giant horse and backed down the road.
“We’d best not see you on this road again!” the black-bearded man called, when they were a safe distance away.
The stranger rode on, unconcerned.
Rojer fought his terror as their voices receded. They had told him they would kill him if he tried to rise again. He reached into his secret pocket to take hold of his talisman, but all he found were some broken bits of wood and a clump of yellow-gray hair. It must have broken when the mute kicked him in the gut. He let the remnants fall from his numb fingers into the mud.
The sound of Leesha’s sobs cut into him, making him afraid to look up. He had made that mistake before, when the giant had gotten off his back to take his turn with Leesha. One of the others had quickly taken his place, using Rojer’s back as a bench to watch the fun.
There was little intelligence in the giant’s eyes, but if he lacked the sadism of his companions, his dumb lust was a terror in itself; the urges of an animal in the body of a rock demon. If Rojer could have removed the image of him atop Leesha from his mind by clawing out his eyes, he would not have hesitated.