Young Arlen would have seethed at this, Keerin still laying claim to his deeds, but the Painted Man was beyond such things. “I have indeed,” he said, clapping the tall Jongleur on the shoulder. “An honor to meet one so brave. Come out with me tonight, and we will find a quake of rock demons to show the sun!”
Keerin paled at the offer, his skin taking on a sickly pallor. The Painted Man smiled in the shadow of his hood. Perhaps he was not so far above such things after all.
“I…er, thank you for the offer,” Keerin stammered. “And I would be honored, of course, but my duties to the duke would never allow for it.”
“I understand,” the Painted Man said. “A good thing you were not so bound when you saved the life of that young boy in the song. What was his name again?”
“Arlen Banes,” Keerin said, regaining his composure with a practiced smile. He moved in close, putting a hand around the Painted Man’s shoulder and speaking in a low voice.
“One demon fighter to another,” he said, “I would be honored to immortalize your deeds in song, if you would grant a short interview when your business with His Grace is concluded.”
The Painted Man turned to face him, lifting his head to allow the lectric lamplight to show into his hood. Keerin gasped and removed his arm, drawing away sharply.
“I don’t kill demons for glory, Jongleur,” he growled, advancing on the poor herald who backed away until his back hit the bookshelf, causing it to rock unsteadily. “I kill demons,” he leaned in close, “because they deserve killing.”
Keerin’s hand shook, spilling his wine. The Painted Man took a step back and smiled. “Write a song about that, perhaps,” he suggested.
Keerin still did not leave, but the herald did not speak again, and for that the Painted Man was thankful.
Euchor’s great hall was smaller than the Painted Man remembered, but still impressive, with soaring pillars holding up a ceiling that seemed impossibly high. It was painted to look like blue sky, with a yellow-white sunburst in the center. Mosaics covered the floor, and tapestries the walls. There was room for a crowd, as the duke held a great many balls and parties there, watching the proceedings from his high throne at the hall’s end.
Duke Euchor was waiting on his throne as the Painted Man approached. Behind him on the royal dais stood three women whose uncomely faces, so like the duke’s, and expensive gowns covered in jewels made it clear they were his daughters. Mother Jone stood at the foot of the dais stairs holding a writing board and pen. Opposite her were Guildmasters Ragen and Malcum. The men, retired Messengers both, stood easily with each other. Ragen whispered something to Malcum, who snickered, drawing a glare from Jone.
Next to Jone stood Tender Ronnell, the Royal Librarian. And Mery’s father.
The Painted Man cursed himself. He should have expected to see Ronnell. If Mery had told him…
But while Ronnell looked at him with interest, there was no recognition in his eyes. His secret was safe, at least for now.
Two guards closed the door behind them and crossed their spears over it from the inside. “Servants,” all with writing boards, drifted on the far side of the pillars, unobtrusive as they watched him closely.
Up close, Euchor had grown fatter and older by far than the Painted Man remembered. He still wore jewels on every stubby finger and a fortune in gold chains, but there were fewer hairs underneath his golden crown. Once an imposing figure, he now looked as if he could barely rise from his throne without help.
“Duke Euchor, Light of the Mountains and Lord of Miln,” Keerin called, “may I present to you the Painted Man, Messenger on behalf of Duke Rhinebeck, Guardian of the Forest Fortress and Lord of Angiers.”
Ragen’s voice came to him, as it always did when meeting a duke. Merchants and Royals will walk all over you if you let them. You need to act like a king in their presence, and never forget who it is risking their life.
With that in mind, he squared his shoulders and strode forward. “Greetings, Your Grace,” he called without waiting to be addressed. His robes whipped out as he sketched a graceful bow. There was a murmur from some at his audacity, but Euchor acted as if he did not notice.
“Welcome to Miln,” the duke said. “We have heard much about you. I confess I was one of many who thought you a myth. Pray, indulge me.” He mimed removing a hood.
The Painted Man nodded and removed his hood, drawing gasps from around the room. Even Ragen managed to look suitably awed.
He waited, letting them all have a good look. “Impressive,” Euchor said. “The tales do not do justice.” As he spoke, Ragen’s Warders went to work, dipping their pens to copy every symbol they saw while trying to seem inconspicuous.
This time it was Cob’s voice in his mind. Fort Miln isn’t like Tibbet’s Brook, boy. Here, things cost money. He didn’t think they would get much—the multitude of symbols were too small and close together—but he pulled his hood up casually, his eyes never leaving the duke’s. The message was clear. His secrets would not come free.
Euchor glanced at the Warders and scowled at their lack of subtlety.
“I bring message from Duke Rhinebeck of Angiers,” the Painted Man said, producing his sealed parcel.
The duke ignored him. “Who are you?” he asked bluntly. “Where are you from?”
“I am the Painted Man,” he said. “I come from Thesa.”
“That name is not spoken in Miln,” the duke warned.
“Nevertheless, it is so,” the Painted Man replied.
Euchor’s eyes widened at his audacity, and he leaned back, considering. Euchor was different from the other dukes the Painted Man had met in his travels. In Lakton and Rizon, the duke was little more than a figurehead to speak the will of the city council. In Angiers, Rhinebeck ruled, but it seemed his brothers and Janson made as many decisions as he. In Miln, Euchor made all the decisions. His advisors were clearly his, and not the other way around. The fact that he had ruled so long was a testament to his canniness.
“Can you really kill corelings with your bare hands?” the duke asked.
The Painted Man smiled again. “As I was telling your Jongleur, Your Grace, come out beyond the wall with me after dark, and I’ll show you personally.”
Euchor laughed, but it was forced, the color draining from his red, doughy face. “Perhaps another time.”
The Painted Man nodded.
Euchor looked at him a long time, as if trying to decide something. “So?” he asked at last. “Are you, or aren’t you?”
“Your Grace?” the Painted Man asked.
“The Deliverer,” the duke clarified.
“Surely not,” Tender Ronnell scoffed, but the duke made a sharp gesture, and he quieted immediately.
“Are you?” he asked again.
“No,” the Painted Man replied. “The Deliverer is a legend, nothing more.” Ronnell looked ready to speak up at that, but the librarian glanced at the duke and remained silent. “I am just a man who has found wards once lost.”
“Battle wards,” Malcum said, his eyes alight. The only one in the room besides Ragen to have faced corelings alone in the night, his interest was no surprise. The Messengers’ Guild would likely pay anything to arm their men with warded spears and arrows.
“And how did you come by these wards?” Euchor pressed.
“There is much to be found in the ruins between cities,” the Painted Man replied.
“Where?” Malcum asked. The Painted Man only smiled, letting them settle on the hook.
“Enough,” Euchor said. “How much gold for the wards?”
The Painted Man shook his head. “I will not sell them for gold.”
Euchor scowled. “I could have my guards persuade you otherwise,” he warned, nodding toward the two at the door.
The Painted Man smiled. “Then you would find yourself with two less guards.”
“Perhaps,” the duke mused, “but I have men to spare. Enough, perhaps, to pin even you down while my Warders copy your flesh.”
“None of my markings will help you ward a spear, or any weapon,” the Painted Man lied. “Those wards are here,” he tapped his hooded temple, “and there are not enough guards in all Miln to force them from me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Euchor warned, “but I can see you have a price in mind, so name it and be done.”
