The Painted Man shrugged. “What does that matter? I never knew the old one.”

“It matters,” Ragen said, “because the new one is Keerin.”

The Painted Man looked up sharply. Keerin was Ragen’s Jongleur partner when they found young Arlen on the road, unconscious and dying of demon fever after crippling One Arm. The Jongleur had been a coward, curling under his bedroll and whimpering as demons tested the wards, but years later the Painted Man had caught him giving a performance where he claimed to have crippled the demon himself, a demon that nightly tried to break into the city to revenge itself upon Arlen, and one time even succeeded in breaching the wall. Arlen had called Keerin a liar publicly, and he and Jaik were badly beaten by Keerin’s apprentices as a result.

“How can a man who refuses to travel herald the duke?” the Painted Man asked.

“Euchor holds tight to power by hoarding people as well as knowledge,” Ragen said. “Keerin’s stupid little song about One Arm made him sought after by Royals, and that got Euchor’s attention. Keerin had a ducal commission soon after, and now performs solely at the duke’s pleasure.”

“So he doesn’t truly herald,” the Painted Man said.

“Oh, he does,” Ragen said. “Most of the hamlets can be reached without ever leaving proper succor, and Euchor even built some way stations on the way to others to accommodate the stoneless little weasel.”

The gates to the Duke’s Keep opened at dawn, and the person who strode out to greet the Painted Man was none other than Keerin.

Keerin was much as the Painted Man remembered, tall even for a Milnese, with carrot-colored hair and bright green eyes. He had fattened a bit, no doubt due to the benefits of his new patron. His thin wisp of a mustache still refused to join with the curl of hair at his chin, though powder crinkled in the lines of his face, attempting to preserve a fading youth.

But where he had last seen Keerin in a Jongleur’s patchwork motley, he was now a royal herald, and dressed accordingly. His tabard was patched in Euchor’s gray, white, and green, cutting a much more somber figure, though his pantaloons were still loose, should he be called upon to tumble, and the inside of his black cloak was sewn with patchwork colored silk that could be revealed with a twirl.

“An honor to meet you, sir!” Keerin said, bowing formally. “His Grace is preparing for the arrival of a few of his key councilors before your audience. If you’ll come with me, I will escort you to a waiting salon.”

The Painted Man followed him through the palace. The last time he had walked here, it was a bustle of activity as Servants and Mothers scurried to and fro on the duke’s business. But this early in the morning, the halls were still empty save for the occasional Servant, trained to be all but invisible.

Buzzing lamps lit the way with a pulsing glow. These needed no oil or wick, no Herb Gatherer’s chemics. Lectrics, it was called, another bit of old science Euchor kept only for himself. It seemed like magic, but the Painted Man knew from his time in the Duke’s Library that it was just harnessed magnetics, no different from wind or running water turning a mill.

Keerin ushered him into a room plush with velvet and a warm hearth. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and there was a mahogany writing desk. If he were alone, it might be a pleasant place to wait.

But Keerin made no move to leave. He went to a silver service, pouring goblets of spiced wine, and returned to hand one to the Painted Man. “I, too, am a demon fighter of some renown. Perhaps you have heard the song I composed about it, titled ‘One Arm’?”

Young Arlen would have seethed at this, Keerin still laying claim to his deeds, but the Painted Man was beyond such things. “I have indeed,” he said, clapping the tall Jongleur on the shoulder. “An honor to meet one so brave. Come out with me tonight, and we will find a quake of rock demons to show the sun!”

Keerin paled at the offer, his skin taking on a sickly pallor. The Painted Man smiled in the shadow of his hood. Perhaps he was not so far above such things after all.

“I…er, thank you for the offer,” Keerin stammered. “And I would be honored, of course, but my duties to the duke would never allow for it.”

“I understand,” the Painted Man said. “A good thing you were not so bound when you saved the life of that young boy in the song. What was his name again?”

“Arlen Banes,” Keerin said, regaining his composure with a practiced smile. He moved in close, putting a hand around the Painted Man’s shoulder and speaking in a low voice.

“One demon fighter to another,” he said, “I would be honored to immortalize your deeds in song, if you would grant a short interview when your business with His Grace is concluded.”

The Painted Man turned to face him, lifting his head to allow the lectric lamplight to show into his hood. Keerin gasped and removed his arm, drawing away sharply.

“I don’t kill demons for glory, Jongleur,” he growled, advancing on the poor herald who backed away until his back hit the bookshelf, causing it to rock unsteadily. “I kill demons,” he leaned in close, “because they deserve killing.”

Keerin’s hand shook, spilling his wine. The Painted Man took a step back and smiled. “Write a song about that, perhaps,” he suggested.

Keerin still did not leave, but the herald did not speak again, and for that the Painted Man was thankful.

Euchor’s great hall was smaller than the Painted Man remembered, but still impressive, with soaring pillars holding up a ceiling that seemed impossibly high. It was painted to look like blue sky, with a yellow-white sunburst in the center. Mosaics covered the floor, and tapestries the walls. There was room for a crowd, as the duke held a great many balls and parties there, watching the proceedings from his high throne at the hall’s end.

Duke Euchor was waiting on his throne as the Painted Man approached. Behind him on the royal dais stood three women whose uncomely faces, so like the duke’s, and expensive gowns covered in jewels made it clear they were his daughters. Mother Jone stood at the foot of the dais stairs holding a writing board and pen. Opposite her were Guildmasters Ragen and Malcum. The men, retired Messengers both, stood easily with each other. Ragen whispered something to Malcum, who snickered, drawing a glare from Jone.

Next to Jone stood Tender Ronnell, the Royal Librarian. And Mery’s father.

The Painted Man cursed himself. He should have expected to see Ronnell. If Mery had told him…

But while Ronnell looked at him with interest, there was no recognition in his eyes. His secret was safe, at least for now.

Two guards closed the door behind them and crossed their spears over it from the inside. “Servants,” all with writing boards, drifted on the far side of the pillars, unobtrusive as they watched him closely.

Up close, Euchor had grown fatter and older by far than the Painted Man remembered. He still wore jewels on every stubby finger and a fortune in gold chains, but there were fewer hairs underneath his golden crown. Once an imposing figure, he now looked as if he could barely rise from his throne without help.

“Duke Euchor, Light of the Mountains and Lord of Miln,” Keerin called, “may I present to you the Painted Man, Messenger on behalf of Duke Rhinebeck, Guardian of the Forest Fortress and Lord of Angiers.”