be expected to prove them all.’
Rojer looked up at the sky. I’ll be playing for the corelings soon enough, he thought. It had been overcast all day, and was getting steadily darker. In the cities where high walls made it so that most people never saw an actual coreling, it was believed to be a tampweed tale that they could rise under dark clouds, but living outside the walls in the hamlets for two years had taught Rojer better. Most would wait until full sunset to rise, but if the clouds grew thick enough, a few bold demons would test the false night.
Cold and wet and in no mood to take the risk, he cast about for a suitable campsite. He’d be lucky to make Woodsend the next day. More likely, he would be two nights on the road. The thought made his stomach churn.
And Woodsend would be no better than the Dale. Or Cricket Run, for that matter. Sooner or later, he would get some woman with child, or worse, fall in love, and before he knew it, he would only be taking his fiddle from its case on festival days. Until he needed to barter it to fix the plough or buy seed, that was. Then he would be just like everyone else.
Or you could go home.
Rojer often thought of returning to Angiers, but was forever coming up with reasons to put it off another season. After all, what did the city have to offer? Narrow streets, choked with people and animals, wooden planks infused with the stench of manure and garbage. Beggars and thieves, and the ever-present worry about money. People who ignored each other as an art.
Normal people, Roger thought, and sighed. Villagers were always seeking to know everything about their neighbours, and opened their homes to strangers without a thought. It was commendable, but Rojer was a city boy at heart.
Returning to Angiers would mean dealing with the guild again. An unlicensed Jongleur’s days were numbered, but a guildsman in good standing’s business was assured. His experience in the hamlets should be enough to win him a licence, especially if he found a guildsman to speak for him. Arrick had alienated most of those, but Rojer might find one to take pity on him upon hearing of his master’s fate.
He found a tree that gave some shelter from the rain, and after setting up his circle, managed to collect enough dry tinder from beneath its boughs to start a small fire. He fed it carefully, but the wind and wet extinguished it before long.
‘Bugger the hamlets,’ Rojer said as the darkness enveloped him, broken only by the occasional flare of magic as a demon tested his wards.
‘Bugger them all.’
Angiers hadn’t changed much since he’d been gone. It seemed smaller, but Rojer had been living in wide open places for some time, and had grown a few inches since he had been there last. He was sixteen now, a man by anyone’s standards. He stood outside the city for some time, staring at the gate and wondering if he was making a mistake.
He had a little coin, sifted carefully from his collection hat over the years and hoarded against his return, and some food in his pack. It wasn’t much, but it would keep him out of the shelters for a few nights at least.
If all I want is a full belly and a roof, I can always go back to the hamlets, he thought. He could head south to Farmer’s Stump and Cutter’s Hollow, or north, to where the Duke had rebuilt Riverbridge on the Angierian side of the river.
If, he told himself again, mustering his courage and walking through the gate.
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
