Piter scowled. He was about to reply when there was a shout from down the road.
“Ay, Riverbridge!”
“Geral!” Jessum called. Rojer looked up in sudden interest, recognizing the Messenger’s bulky frame. His mouth watered at the sight. Geral always had a sweet for him.
Another man rode next to him, a stranger, but his Jongleur’s motley put the boy at ease. He thought of how the last Jongleur had sung and danced and walked upside down on his hands, and he hopped with excitement. Rojer loved Jongleurs more than anything.
“Little Rojer, gone and grown another six inches!” Geral cried, pulling up his horse and leaping down to pick Rojer up. He was tall and built like a rain barrel, with a round face and grizzled beard. Rojer had been afraid of him once, with his metal shirt and the demon scar that turned his lower lip into an angry pucker, but no more. He laughed as Geral tickled him.
“Which pocket?” Geral asked, holding the boy at arms’ length. Rojer pointed immediately. Geral always kept the sweets in the same place.
The big Messenger laughed, retrieving a Rizonan sugar wrapped in a twist of corn husk. Rojer squealed and plopped down on the grass to unwrap it.
“What brings you to Riverbridge this time?” Jessum asked the Messenger.
The Jongleur stepped forward, sweeping his cloak back in a flourish. He was tall, with long hair sun-bleached to gold and a brown beard. His jaw was perfectly squared, and his skin sun-bronzed. Over his motley he wore a fine tabard emblazoned with a cluster of green leaves on a field of brown.
“Arrick Sweetsong,” he introduced himself, “Master Jongleur and herald to His Grace, Duke Rhinebeck the Third, guardian of the forest fortress, wearer of the wooden crown, and Lord of all Angiers. I come to inspect the town before His Grace’s arrival next week.”
“The duke’s herald is a Jongleur?” Piter asked Geral, raising an eyebrow.
“None better for the hamlets,” Geral replied with a wink. “Folks are less likely to string a man up for telling them taxes are raised when he’s juggling for their kids.”
Arrick scowled at him, but Geral only laughed.
“Be a good man and fetch the innkeep to come for our horses,” Arrick told Jessum.
“I’m the innkeep,” Rojer’s father said, holding out his hand. “Jessum Inn. That’s my boy, Rojer.” He nodded at Rojer.
Arrick ignored the hand and the boy, producing a silver moon as if from thin air and flicking it his way. Jessum caught the coin, looking at it curiously.
“The horses,” Arrick said pointedly. Jessum frowned, but he pocketed the coin and moved for the animals. Geral took his own reins and waved him away.
“I still need my wards looked at, Piter,” Jessum said. “You’ll be sorry if I have to send Kally to shriek at you about it.”
“It looks like the bridge still needs a lot of work before His Grace arrives,” Arrick noted. Piter stood a bit straighter at that and gave Jessum a sour look.
“Do you wish to sleep behind peeling wards tonight, Master Jongleur?” Jessum asked. Arrick’s bronzed skin paled at that.
“I’ll take a look at them, if you want,” Geral said. “I can patch them if they’re not too bad, and I’ll fetch Piter myself if they are.” He stomped his spear and gave the Warder a hard stare. Piter’s eyes widened, and he nodded his understanding.
Geral picked Rojer up and sat him atop his huge destrier. “Hold tight, boy,” he said, “we’re going for a ride!” Rojer laughed and pulled the destrier’s mane as Geral and his father led the horses to the inn. Arrick strode ahead of them like a man followed by servants.
Kally was waiting at the door. “Geral!” she called. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“And who is this?” Arrick asked, his hands flicking quickly to smooth his hair and clothes.
“This is Kally,” Jessum said, adding “my wife” when the twinkle in Arrick’s eye did not diminish.
Arrick seemed not to hear, striding up to her and throwing his multicolored cloak back as he made a leg.
“A pleasure, madam,” he said, kissing her hand. “I am Arrick Sweetsong, Master Jongleur and herald to Duke Rhinebeck the Third, guardian of the forest fortress, wearer of the wooden crown, and Lord of all Angiers. His Grace will be pleased to see such beauty when he visits your fine inn.”
Kally covered her mouth, her pale cheeks coloring to match her red hair. She made a clumsy curtsy in return.
“You and Geral must be tired,” she said. “Come in and I’ll serve some hot soup while I prepare supper.”
“We would be delighted, good lady,” Arrick said, bowing again.
“Geral promised to look over the wards for us before dark, Kal,” Jessum said.
“What?” Kally asked, pulling her eyes from Arrick’s handsome smile. “Oh, well you two stake the horses and see to that while I show Master Arrick a room and start supper,” she said.
“A lovely idea,” Arrick said, offering her an arm as they went inside.
“Keep an eye on Arrick with your wife,” Geral muttered. “They call him ‘Sweetsong’ because his voice will make any woman sweet between the legs, and I’ve never known him to stop at a wedding vow.”
Jessum scowled. “Rojer,” he said, pulling him off the horse, “run in and stay with Mum.”
Rojer nodded, hitting the ground running.
“The last Jongleur ate fire,” Rojer said. “Can you eat fire?”
“That I can,” Arrick said, “and spit it back out like a flame demon.” Rojer clapped his hands and Arrick turned back to gaze at Kally, who was bending behind the bar to fill him a mug of ale. She had let her hair down.
Rojer pulled his cloak again. The Jongleur tried to tuck it out of reach, but Rojer just tugged on his pant leg instead.
“What is it?” Arrick asked, turning back to him with a scowl.
“Do you sing, too?” Rojer asked. “I like singing.”
“Perhaps I will sing for you later,” Arrick said, turning away again.
“Oh give him a little song,” Kally begged, putting a foaming mug on the counter before him. “It would make him so happy.” She smiled, but Arrick’s eyes had already drifted down to the top button of her dress, which had mysteriously come undone while she fetched his mug.
“Of course,” Arrick said, smiling brightly. “Just a pull of your fine ale to wash the dust from my throat.”
He drained the mug in one quaff, eyes never leaving her neckline, and reached for a large multicolored bag on the floor. Kally refilled his mug as he produced his lute.
Arrick’s rich alto voice filled the room, clear and beautiful as he gently strummed the lute. He sang a song of a hamlet woman who missed her one chance to love a man before he left for the Free Cities, and forever regretted it. Kally and Rojer stared at him in wonder, mesmerized by the sound. When he finished, they clapped loudly.
“More!” Rojer cried.
“Not now, my boy,” Arrick said, ruffling his hair. “Perhaps after supper. Here,” he said, reaching into the multicolored bag, “why not try making your own music?” He produced a straw fiddle, several strips of polished rosewood in different lengths set into a lacquered wooden frame. A stout cord attached it to the wand, a six-inch stick with a lathed wooden ball at the end.