Rojer had attempted to pick his own clothes at first, but his wives quickly put an end to that. In truth, they had a better sense of such things than he.
The jacket and breeches Sikvah chose for an informal meeting with the baron were printed with an intricate pattern of muted color, like a fine Krasian rug. The loose shirt was flawless white silk. It felt like wearing a cloud.
Beneath the flowing cloth, Rojer’s medallion hung heavy on his chest. A Royal Angierian Medal of Valor on a thick braided chain, the heavy gold molding in relief crossed spears behind a shield emblazoned with Duke Rhinebeck’s crest: a leafed crown floating above an ivy-covered throne. Beneath the shield, a banner read:
Arrick Sweetsong
But Rojer wore it in reverse, the medallion’s smooth back etched with four more names:
Kally
Jessum
Geral
Jaycob
The names of those who had had died protecting Rojer. Five names. Five lives, cut short for his. How many was his miserable existence worth?
He pretended to fiddle with his laces for the excuse to touch the medal. For an instant, his fingers brushed the cool metal and a wave of comfort flowed through him, driving away the gripping anxiety. Whatever his brain told him, his heart knew no harm could come to him while he was touching it.
It was a fool’s belief, but Rojer was a fool by trade, so that worked out.
Sikvah pulled his hands away like a mother dressing a toddler, fixing the laces herself. Anxiety clenched him again, and he moved his hand back instinctively. Sikvah delivered a sharp slap to the back of his hand. It stung for a moment, then fell away, numb as she jerked the shirt straight.
Rojer jumped back in surprise. “Sikvah!”
Sikvah’s eyes widened, and she dropped smoothly to her knees, hands on the ground. “I apologize for striking you, honored husband. If you wish to whip me, it is your right …”
Rojer was stunned. “No, I …”
Sikvah bobbed. “Of course. I will inform the dama’ting to issue my penance …”
“No one’s whipping anyone!” Rojer snapped. “What is it with you people? Just forget it and find me another shirt. Something with buttons.”
The moment she turned her back, Rojer’s hand darted to the medallion, clutching as if his life depended on it.
His talisman was one of the few secrets he still held from his wives. They knew the names, his mother and father, their family friend the Messenger, and the two Jongleurs he had apprenticed under. Honored dead.
But the stories behind them, the tales of murder, betrayal, and stupidity, these he kept secret.
Sikvah brought the new shirt, a voluminous affair with heavy lace cravat. It was more ostentatious than the occasion merited, but perfect to put a fog over his chest, that he might easily stroke his medallion without drawing attention.
Had she done it on purpose? When Sikvah left the third button from the top undone, Rojer knew she understood, and his heart ached.
Everyone he had ever loved in his life had died and left him alone, but what if the debt was still not paid in full? Would it be Sikvah to die for him next? Amanvah? Kendall? He couldn’t bear the thought.
He realized he was clutching the medallion in a grip so hard it hurt. How long since he had done that? Months. After the attack at new moon, very little frightened him anymore.
But he was frightened now. Thamos had been cold since Rojer refused to take commission as royal herald of Hollow County. He would not be moved to turn on his brother’s herald over a tale of some murdered street performer.
Worse, Jasin might well have arrived with an arrest warrant, for him or his wives. The daughter and niece of the Krasian leader would be valuable hostages, especially now that the Krasians had invaded Lakton.
An accusation against Jasin now might get Rojer nothing but the Herald’s ire, and Rojer knew well how Jasin Goldentone dealt with ire. He embraced it, stroked it, nourished it.
And then, when you thought he must surely have forgotten, it was knives on a darkened street.
Rojer choked, his next breaths came out in a fit of coughing.
“Husband, are you well?” Sikvah asked. “I will inform the dama’ting …”
“I’m fine!” Rojer pulled away, straightening his cravat. The medallion pulled at him, but he ignored the need, reaching for his fiddle and cloak. “Just need a sip of wine.”
“Water would be best.” Sikvah moved to fill a cup. His jiwah no longer tried to stop him drinking alcohol, but neither did they approve.
“Wine,” Rojer said again. Sikvah bowed and fetched the proper skin. He ignored the cup she offered, taking the skin whole and heading for the door.
“Husband, when will you return?” Sikvah called.
“Not until late in the day,” and Rojer was through the door, closing it behind him.
Coliv stood in a shadowed nook just outside the door to the apartments. The Watcher gave Rojer a nod of acknowledgment, but said nothing.
“Post extra Sharum around the restaurant,” Rojer said. “We have enemies in the day.”
“All men have enemies in the day,” Coliv said. “It is only in the night we become brothers.”
“Just post the ripping men,” Rojer snapped.
Coliv gave a slight bow. “It is already done, son of Jeph. The Holy Daughter issued these commands yesterday.”
Rojer sighed. “Course she did.”
Coliv tilted his head. “This man, Goldentone. He owes you a blood debt, yes?”
Rojer kept his face blank. “Yes. But I don’t want you and my jiwah involved.”
Coliv bowed again, deeper this time, and for two heartbeats longer. “I apologize for underestimating you, son of Jessum. You greenlanders do know something of the Sharum way. There is no honor in a man sending assassins to collect his blood debts.”
Rojer blinked. This from the master assassin? “Then don’t get involved. Even if Amanvah commands it.”
Coliv bowed one last time, shallow and brief. “There is no honor in assassination, master, but it is sometimes necessary. If the Holy Daughter commands I get involved, I will be involved.”
Rojer swallowed. Part of him thrilled at the thought of Coliv putting his spear through the hearts of Jasin and his apprentices, but it wouldn’t end there. Jasin had family. Powerful family with deep ties to the ivy throne. Blood would be paid in blood.
He took the steps three at a time, practically bouncing at the landing and out the back door to Shamavah’s stables. Krasian children in tan tended the animals, and they all hopped when they saw him, rushing to be the first to help.
The quickest proved to be young Shalivah, Drillmaster Kaval’s granddaughter. The drillmaster, too, had died for Rojer. As had Amanvah’s bodyguard Enkido. Two more names to etch into the medallion. Seven lives now, paid for his one.
“Will master need his mottley coach?” the girl asked, her words quick and heavily accented.
Rojer pulled a bright Jongleur’s mask over his face in an instant. She didn’t see him slip the tiny flower from his bright new bag of marvels. To her it appeared from thin air, and she gasped as he gave it to her.
“Motley, Shalivah, not mottley. Motley means ‘colorful.’ Mottley means ‘spotted.’ Do you understand?”
The girl nodded, and Rojer produced a sugar candy. “Say it. Motley.”