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.”
“First things first,” the Painted Man said, handing Rhinebeck’s satchel to Jone. “Duke Rhinebeck requests an alliance in driving out the Krasian invasion that has taken Rizon.”
“Of course Rhinebeck wants to ally,” Euchor snorted. “He sits behind wooden walls, in green lands the desert rats will covet. But what reason have I to march?”
“He invokes the Pact,” the Painted Man said.
Euchor waited as Jone took the letter to him, snatching it and reading it quickly. He scowled and crumpled it in his hand.
“Rhinebeck has already broken the Pact,” he growled, “when he tried to rebuild Riverbridge on his side of the river. Let them pay back the tolls from the last fifteen years, and then perhaps I will give thought to his city.”
“Your Grace,” the Painted Man said, swallowing the urge to leap onto the dais and throttle the man, “the matter of Riverbridge can be settled another day. This is a threat to both your peoples far beyond that petty dispute.”
“Petty?!” the duke demanded. Ragen shook his head, and the Painted Man immediately regretted his choice of words. He had never been as good at handling royals as his mentor.
“The Krasians don’t come for taxes, Your Grace,” he pressed. “Make no mistake, they come to kill and rape until the entire Northland is levied into their army.”
“I fear no desert rats,” Euchor said. “Let them come and break themselves against my mountains! Let them lay siege in these frozen lands, and see if their sand wards can battle snow demons while they starve outside my walls.”
“And what of your hamlets?” the Painted Man said. “Will you sacrifice them as well?”
“I can defend my duchy without aid,” Euchor said. “There are books of war sciences in my library, plans for weapons and engines that can break the savages with little loss to us.”
“If I may have a word, Your Grace,” Tender Ronnell said, drawing all eyes to him. He bowed deeply, and when Euchor nodded, he darted up the dais steps and bent to whisper.
The Painted Man’s sharp ears caught every murmured word.
“Your Grace, are you sure it’s wise to return such secrets to the world?” the Tender asked. “It was the wars of men that brought the Plague.”
“Would you prefer a plague of Krasians?” Euchor hissed back. “What will become of the Tenders of the Creator if the Evejans come?”
Ronnell paused. “Your point is well taken, Your Grace.” He bowed away.
“So you hold the Dividing,” the Painted Man said. “But how long can Miln survive without grain, fish, and lumber from the South? The Royal Gardens may supply your keep, but when the rest of the city begins to starve, they will dig you out of your own walls.”