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

He found an inn that was cheap enough, and unpacked his best motley, heading back out as soon as he was changed. The Jongleurs’ guildhouse was located near the centre of town, where its residents could easily make engagements in any part of the city. Any licensed Jongleur could live in the house, provided they took the jobs assigned to them without complaint, and paid half their earnings to the guild.

‘Fools,’ Arrick called them. ‘Any Jongleur willing to give half his take for a roof and three communal servings of gruel isn’t worthy of the name.’

It was true enough. Only the oldest and least skilled Jongleurs lived in the house, ready to take the jobs others turned down. Still, it was better than destitution, and safer than public shelters. The wards on the guildhouse were strong, and its residents less apt to rob one another.

Rojer headed for the residences, and a few inquiries soon had him knocking on a particular door.

‘Eh?’ the old man asked, squinting into the hall as he opened his door. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Rojer Halfgrip, sir,’ Rojer said, and seeing no recognition in the rheumy eyes, added, ‘I was apprentice to Arrick Sweetsong.’

The confused look soured in an instant, and the man moved to close the door.

‘Master Jaycob, please,’ Rojer said, placing his hand on the door.

The old man sighed, but made no effort to close the door as he moved back into the small chamber and sat down heavily. Rojer entered, closing the door behind them.

‘What is it you want?’ Jaycob asked. ‘I’m an old man and don’t have time for games.’

‘I need a sponsor to apply for a guild licence,’ Rojer said.

Jaycob spat on the floor. ‘Arrick’s become a dead weight?’ he asked. ‘His drinking slowing down your success, so you’re leaving him to rot and striking out on your own?’ He grunted. ‘Fitting. S’what he did to me, twenty-five years ago.’

He looked up at Rojer. ‘But fitting or no, if you think I’m to help in your betrayal …’

‘Master Jaycob,’ Rojer said, holding up his hands to forestall the coming tirade, ‘Arrick is dead. Cored on the road to Woodsend, two years gone.’

‘Keep your back straight, boy,’ Jaycob said as they walked down the hall. ‘Remember to look the guildmaster in the eye, and don’t speak until you’re spoken to.’

He had already said these things a dozen times, but Rojer only nodded. He was young to get his own licence, but Jaycob said there had been some in the guild’s history who were younger still. It was talent and skill that would win a licence, not years.

It wasn’t easy to get an appointment with the guildmaster, even with a sponsor. Jaycob hadn’t had the strength to perform in years, and while the guildsmen were politely respectful of his advanced years, he was more ignored than venerated in the office wing of the guildhouse.

The guildmaster’s secretary left them waiting outside his office for several hours, watching in despair as other appointments came and went. Rojer sat with his back straight, resisting the urge to shift or slump, as the light from the window slowly crossed the room.

‘Guildmaster Cholls will see you now,’ the clerk said at last, and Rojer snapped back to attention. He stood quickly, lending Jaycob a hand to help the old man to his feet.

The guildmaster’s office was like nothing Rojer had seen since his time in the Duke’s palace. Thick warm carpet covered the floors, patterned and bright, and elaborate oil lamps with coloured glass hung from the oak walls between paintings of great battles, beautiful women, and still lifes. His desk was dark polished walnut, with small, intricate statuettes for paperweights, mirroring the larger statues on pedestals throughout the room. Behind the desk was the symbol of the Jongleurs’ guild, three coloured balls, in a large seal on the wall.

‘I don’t have a lot of time, Master Jaycob,’ Guildmaster Cholls said, not even bothering to look up from the sheaf of papers on his desk. He was a heavy man, fifty summers at least, dressed in the embroidered cloth of a merchant or noble, rather than Jongleur’s motley.

‘This one is worth your time,’ Jaycob said. ‘The apprentice of Arrick Sweetsong.’

Cholls looked up at last, if only to glance askew at Jaycob. ‘Didn’t realize you and Arrick were still in touch,’ he said, ignoring Rojer entirely. ‘Heard you broke on bad terms.’

‘The years have a way of softening such things,’ Jaycob said stiffly, as close to a lie as he was willing to go. ‘I’ve made my peace with Arrick.’

‘It seems you’re the only one,’ Cholls said with a chuckle. ‘Most of the men in this building would as soon throttle the man as look at him.’

‘They’d be a little late,’ Jaycob said. ‘Arrick is dead.’

Cholls sobered at that. ‘I’m saddened to hear that,’ he said. ‘Every one of us is precious. Was it the drink, in the end?’

Jaycob shook his head. ‘Corelings.’

The guildmaster scowled, and spat into a brass bucket by his desk that seemed there for no other purpose. ‘When and where?’ he asked.

‘Two years ago, on the road to Woodsend.’

Cholls shook his head sadly. ‘I recall his apprentice was something of a fiddler,’ he said at last, glancing Rojer’s way.

‘Indeed,’ Jaycob agreed. ‘That and more. I present to you Rojer Halfgrip.’ Rojer bowed.

‘Halfgrip?’ The guildmaster asked, with sudden interest. ‘I’ve heard tales of a Halfgrip playing the Western hamlets. That you, boy?’

Rojer’s eyes widened, but he nodded. Arrick had said that reputations carried quickly from the hamlets, but it was still a shock. He wondered if his reputation was good or ill.

‘Don’t let it go to your head,’ Cholls said, as if reading his mind. ‘Yokels exaggerate.’

Rojer nodded, keeping eye contact with the guildmaster. ‘Yes, sir. I understand.’

‘Well then, let’s get on with this,’ Cholls said. ‘Show me what you have.’

‘Here?’ Rojer asked doubtfully. The office was large and private, but with its thick carpets and expensive furniture, it hardly seemed suited to tumbling and knife throwing.

Cholls waved at him impatiently. ‘You performed with Arrick for years, so I’ll accept that you can juggle and sing,’ he said. Rojer swallowed hard. ‘Earning a licence means showing a focus skill beyond those basics.’

‘Fiddle him, boy, just like you did me,’ Jaycob said confidently. Rojer nodded. His hands shook slightly as he took his fiddle from its case, but when his fingers closed about the smooth wood, the fear washed away like dust in a bath. He began to play, the guildmaster forgotten as he fell into the music.

He played a short while before a shout broke the music’s spell. His bow slipped from the strings, and in the silence that followed, a voice thundered outside the door.

‘No, I will not wait for some worthless apprentice to finish his test! Move aside!’ There were sounds of a scuffle before the door burst open and Master Jasin stormed into the room.

‘I’m sorry, Guildmaster,’ the clerk apologized, ‘he refused to wait.’

Cholls waved the clerk away as Jasin stormed up to him. ‘You gave the Duke’s Ball to Edum?’ he demanded. ‘That’s been my performance for ten years! My uncle will hear of this!’

Cholls stood his ground, arms crossed. ‘The Duke himself requested the change,’ he said. ‘If your uncle has a problem, I suggest he take it up with His Grace.’

Jasin scowled. It was doubtful if even First Minister Janson would intercede with the Duke over a performance for his nephew.

‘If that’s all you came to discuss, Jasin, you’ll have to excuse us,’ Cholls went on. ‘Young Rojer here is testing for his licence.’

Jasin’s eyes snapped over to Rojer, flaring with recognition. ‘I see you’ve ditched the drunk,’ he sneered. ‘Hope you didn’t trade him for this old relic,’ he thrust his chin at Jaycob. ‘The offer stands, you want to work for me. Let Arrick beg for your scraps for a change, eh?’

‘Master Arrick was cored on the road two years ago,’ Cholls said.

Jasin glanced back at the guildmaster, then laughed out loud. ‘Fabulous!’ he cried. ‘That news makes up for losing the Duke’s Ball, and to spare!’