“No,” he said. The word slipped out before he could stop it, but once it hung there in the air between them, Rojer felt the rightness of it, like the fit of the bow in his crippled hand.

Arrick blustered through his mustache, shocked at the boy’s audacity.

“The gloves, I mean,” Rojer clarified, and saw Arrick’s expression change from anger to curiosity. “I don’t want to wear them anymore. I hate them.”

Arrick sighed and uncorked his new bottle of wine, pouring a cup.

“Didn’t we agree,” he said, pointing at Rojer with the bottle, “that people would be less likely to hire you if they knew your infirmity?” he asked.

“We never agreed,” Rojer said. “You just told me to start wearing the gloves one day.”

Arrick chuckled. “Hate to disillusion you, boy, but that’s how it is between masters and apprentices. No one wants a crippled Jongleur.”

“So that’s all I am?” Rojer asked. “A cripple?”

“Of course not,” Arrick said. “I wouldn’t trade you for any apprentice in Angiers. But not everyone will look past your demon scars to see the man within. They will label you with some mocking name, and you’ll find them laughing at you and not with.”

“I don’t care,” Rojer said. “The gloves make me feel like a fraud, and my hand is bad enough without the fake fingers making it clumsier. What does it matter why they laugh, if they come and pay klats to do it?”

Arrick looked at him a long time, tapping his cup. “Let me see the gloves,” he said at last.

They were black, and reached halfway up his forearm. Bright-colored triangles of cloth were sewn to the ends, with bells attached. Rojer tossed them to his master with a frown.

Arrick caught the gloves, looked at them for half a moment, and then tossed them out the window, brushing his hands together as if touching the gloves had left them unclean.

“Grab your boots and let’s go,” he said, tossing back the remains of his cup.

“I don’t really like the boots either,” Rojer dared.

Arrick smiled at the boy. “Don’t push your luck,” he warned with a wink.

Guild law allowed licensed Jongleurs to perform on any street corner, so long as they did not block traffic or hinder commerce. Some vendors even hired them to attract attention to their booths, or the common rooms of taverns.

Arrick’s drinking had alienated most of the latter, so they performed in the street. Arrick was a late sleeper, and the best spots had long since been staked out by other Jongleurs. The space they found wasn’t ideal: a corner on a side street far from the main lanes of traffic.

“It’ll do,” Arrick grunted. “Drum up some business, boy, while I set up.”

Rojer nodded and ran off. Whenever he found a likely cluster of people, he cartwheeled by them, or walked by on his hands, the bells sewn into his motley ringing an invitation.

“Jongleur show!” he cried. “Come see Arrick Sweetsong perform!”

Between his acrobatics and the weight still carried by his master’s name, he drew a fair bit of attention. Some even followed him on his rounds, clapping and laughing at his antics.

One man elbowed his wife. “Look, it’s the crippled boy from Small Square!”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Just look at his hand!” the man said.

Rojer pretended not to hear, moving on in search of more customers. He soon brought his small following to his master, finding Arrick juggling a butcher knife, a meat cleaver, a hand axe, a small stool, and an arrow in easy rhythm, joking with a growing crowd of his own.

“And here comes my assistant,” Arrick called to the crowd, “Rojer Halfgrip!”

Rojer was already running forward when the name registered. What was Arrick doing?

It was too late to slow, though, so he put his arms out and flung himself forward, cartwheeling into a triple backflip to stand a few yards from his master. Arrick snatched the butcher knife from the deadly array in the air before him and flicked it Rojer’s way.

Fully expecting the move, Rojer went into a spin, catching the blunt and specially weighted knife easily in his good left hand. As he completed the circuit, he uncoiled and threw, sending the blade spinning right at Arrick’s head.

Arrick, too, went into a spin, and came out of the circuit with the blade held tightly in his teeth. The crowd cheered, and as the blade went back up into rhythm with the other implements, a wave of klats clicked into the hat.

“Rojer Halfgrip!” Arrick called. “With only ten years and eight fingers, he’s still deadlier with a knife than any grown man!”

The crowd applauded. Rojer held his crippled hand up for all to see, and the crowd ooohed and aahed over it. Already, Arrick’s suggestion had most of them believing he made that catch and throw with his crippled hand. They would tell others, and exaggerate in the telling. Rather than risk Rojer being labeled by the crowd, Arrick had labeled him first.

“Rojer Halfgrip,” he murmured, tasting the name on his tongue.

“Hup!” Arrick called, and Rojer turned as his master flung the arrow at him. He slapped his hands together, catching the missile just before it struck his face. He spun again, putting his back to the crowd. With his good hand, he threw the arrow between his legs back toward his master, but when he finished the move and faced the crowd, his crippled right hand was extended. “Hup!” he called back.

Arrick feigned fear, dropping the blades he was juggling, but the stool fell into his hands just in time for the arrow to stick in its center. Arrick studied it as if amazed at his own good fortune. He flicked his wrist as he pulled the arrow free, and it became a bouquet of flowers, which he bestowed on the prettiest woman in the crowd. More coins clattered into the hat.

Seeing his master moving on to magic, Rojer ran to the bag of marvels for the implements Arrick would need for his tricks. As he did, there came a cry from the crowd.

“Play your fiddle!” a man called. As he did, there was a general buzz of agreement. Rojer looked up to see the same man who had called so loudly for Sweetsong the day before.

“In the mood for music, are we?” Arrick asked the crowd, not missing a beat. He was answered with a cheer, so Arrick went to the bag and took the fiddle, tucking it under his chin and turning back to the audience. But before he could put bow to string, the man cried out.

“Not you, the boy!” he bellowed. “Let Halfgrip play!”

Arrick looked to Rojer, his face a mask of irritation as the crowd began chanting “Halfgrip! Halfgrip!” Finally he shrugged, handing his apprentice the instrument.

Rojer took the fiddle with shaking hands. “Never upstage your master” was a rule apprentices learned early. But the crowd was calling for him to play, and again the bow felt so right in his crippled hand, free of the cursed glove. He closed his eyes, feeling the stillness of the strings under his fingertips, and then brought them to a low hum. The crowd quieted as he played softly for a few moments, stroking the strings like the back of a cat, making it purr.

The fiddle came alive in his hands, then, and he led it out like a partner in a reel, sweeping it into a whirlwind of music. He forgot the crowd. He forgot Arrick. Alone with his music, he explored new harmonies even as he maintained a constant melody, improvising in time to the tempo of clapping that seemed a world removed.