Kings of the North

by Elizabeth Moon

  She led them to a small empty dining room off the vast kitchen, with a table just large enough for six, and then fetched breakfast herself. “For you, Arvid, meat to make up the blood you lost. For you, rockbrother, what I believe your folk prefer: fruit and seeds. If that is not to your taste, please tell me.” The gnome chose berries over stone fruits, and crunched away at the various seeds and nuts. Arvid ate steadily: the slice of ham, the eggs, the bread. When they had done, the Marshal-General carried the crockery out and came back.

  “Rockbrother,” she said first, “I need to speak with Arvid awhile, him alone. Will you walk about the garden, or accept a guide around the Hall?”

  The gnome looked at Arvid. Arvid shrugged. “Do what you will, rockbrother, while the Marshal-General and I have speech. I will be with you again later.”

  “I would see your High Lord’s Hall,” the gnome said, to Arvid’s surprise. “I understand this is to you what our Giver of Law is to us.”

  “That pleases me,” the Marshal-General said. “I will send for a guide, one who speaks some of your language, to answer any questions you may have.”

  The gnome bowed; soon a young woman in a Marshal’s tabard appeared and greeted him in his language. “Rockbrother, you would see the High Lord’s Hall? May I be your guide?” And off they went together. The Marshal-General sat down across from Arvid.

  “Well, now,” she said.

  “Marshal-General,” Arvid said. He had not expected to feel anything in particular face-to-face with her—he who had been face-to-face with others in power—but her steady gaze quickened his pulse.

  “You are not a stupid man, Arvid Semminson,” she said. “I do not believe you stole the necklace, nor did you entomb those Girdish knights. You would not commit such obvious crimes.”

  “Thank you for your good opinion,” Arvid said, past a tight throat.

  “So I will hear your story, in your own words, taking as long as you will, and as completely as you remember.” Her mouth twitched in the tiniest of smiles. “I imagine you understand me.”

  “You have no scribe here to record—”

  “No. If I decide a record is necessary, I can write it myself.”

  “I begin with the showing of the regalia, then,” Arvid said. Without naming names, he explained how word of the regalia had passed to and through the Thieves’ Guild.

  “Do you know the first date the crown was heard of?” the Marshal-General said.

  “Before the coronation? No, only that there was rumor the new Duke Verrakai had a secret crown and would have another try at the prince, then or after he became king. As soon as word passed that Dorrin Verrakai would be the new duke, I would say. Certainly the rumors built in the last few tendays before the coronation itself.”

  “I was surprised to find you had left Vérella when I came through.”

  “My pardon, Marshal-General, if that was discourteous. I had not visited Fintha for years and thought I might familiarize myself with the land and the city.”

  “A tactical talent, then,” the Marshal-General said. “I do not blame you; it merely surprised me. And my Marshals, as well, to find the Thieves’ Guild so quiet with you gone.”

  Arvid looked at his nails. “Well,” he said. “You have skilled staff … and so, in my way, do I.”

  “So you arrived here and stayed a night at the Gray Fox … but did not await my arrival to present yourself the next afternoon at the Hall. May I ask why?”

  “I had your safe passage to show, Marshal-General, and thought again that I would prefer to scout the territory ahead of you. I would not beg more than one night’s extra lodging—”

  “You knew I would come yesterday? How?”

  “A messenger from the grange where you stayed the night before stopped for a mug of ale at the Fox and told the landlord you would be back at Hall the next day. Then, when I arrived here, your people told me the same. But the other reason I came was to warn the Hall of the intended theft of the necklace by a dwarf—a dwarf who was with that gnome. You do know, Marshal-General, that he’s kteknik?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Go on.”

  “The dwarf was intent on the theft; the gnome was not, but I thought might be persuaded to it after I left. So I warned your people, and suggested the ruse of putting a single sapphire and some gold in the room where the necklace had lain, and a separate guard on it upstairs somewhere, as far from rock as possible. I said I would remain in the chamber alone, with guards outside, and explained I expected the rockfolk to come through the rock.” He paused for a swallow of water. “As they did. But the dwarf had drugged the gnome and then used his rock-magic to rend the rock silently and swiftly. The gnome was unconscious and nearly dead when the dwarf broke through.”

  “Why didn’t you call for help?” the Marshal-General asked.

  “I was a fool,” Arvid said. “I am not stupid, but a man of wit may outsmart himself, and I did so. Seeing the gnome senseless, and knowing my skill and experience, I thought to disarm the dwarf myself—kill him if I must—and then—” He shook his head. “I knew the guards were spelled—”

  “What? You didn’t mention that.”

  “I forgot. Before they broke through, they sent the rock-cold … the spell that makes men tired and cold, their eyes heavy as if pebbles lay on them. I have faced its like before; I stayed awake, but suspected the others slept.” He shook his head again. “And for that, and for my pride in swordplay, I caused their deaths, for the dwarf caused the rock to spread across the door. I thought then it was only a single stone’s thickness, but the gnome told me later—but let me tell it in order.”

  “Go ahead,” she said again.

  Arvid told of the fight, of tending the gnome and the long difficult crawl through the passage, of the gnome’s claim that since his blade in the dwarf’s hand had wounded Arvid, the gnome owed him a great debt.

  “I told him that leading me out and tending my wound cleared the debt, but he said no,” Arvid said.

  “How did the troop find you? There on the hillside?”

  “No. I knew I must come back to the city, so we walked—I don’t entirely remember until we found a road. It was on the road your people found us. The—Marshal? Knight?—named Pir would have killed me there and then.”

  “Would he, indeed? That would have been discourteous and unwise.” Now she looked dangerous, her face hardening in anger.

  “I told him you wanted to hear more of Paksenarrion, and I could be killed just as easily after I talked to you.” Arvid drank more water. “I could tell you his idea of what happened—”

  “No, I will hear it from him,” she said.

  Arvid went on with his story, ending with, “I may have a few things out of order there, for truly, with the night and day’s exertions and the wound and the heat of the sun, I was not as alert as I prefer to be.”

  “Um.”

  “You said students were missing?”

  “Two. Did you speak to anyone but Marshal Perin in the School? Any of the students?”

  “One boy stuck his head in. I told him I wasn’t supposed to talk to students, and he came all the way in.”

  “Let me guess. That was Baris Arnufson.”

  “Do you know everyone’s name?”

  “Don’t you know the name of everyone in the Thieves’ Guild in Tsaia?”

  “A fair question. Yes, that was the boy’s name. A right piece of mischief, I thought, but not a bad boy at heart.”

  “He’s gone.”

  “I didn’t take him for a thief,” Arvid said. Would that boy have stolen his horse? His pack? “A conniver, yes; he told me he’d persuaded another boy to do a task for him.”

  “He’s not the only one gone. I don’t know if they’re together, if one followed the other, if it’s unrelated …”

  “You want my help.”

  “I wanted your information about Paksenarrion, and hers about the necklace, as you know, but having come home to this, I need most to know if thos
e boys are alone in this or if someone else was involved.”

  “I don’t see Baris as the thief,” Arvid said. “This theft has a more adult feel, of someone with experience. And it’s someone here, Marshal-General, inside Gird’s cordon of righteousness: someone who knew that the necklace was no longer in the cellar, and someone who knew how to maze the guards watching it.”

  “I was afraid of that,” the Marshal-General said.

  “The boys—or one boy—may have been gulled into helping, especially if in awe of high-ranking men. Baris is less likely for that role. Or one or both may have seen something inconvenient to the thief and been … silenced.”

  The Marshal-General paled. “You mean—killed?”

  “It’s certainly possible. That, or locked away somewhere long enough for the thief to escape. But you will have searched everywhere, I’m sure.”

  “Not everywhere … Just where we thought boys might hide to escape a class or a chore. And then, with the horse gone, and your pack …”

  “Yes. I suggest you send someone down to the marketplace and see if my horse is for sale or if a horse of that description sold yesterday. Dark bay, looks black from a distance, touch of white on the off rear pastern. Well-built, no brands or other marks. If he’s there, he knows my call—better the whistle that was in my pack, but that’s conveniently gone. My pack would be easy to lose down any cistern.”

  “If you believe it is someone from here, I cannot send anyone,” the Marshal-General said. “If you’re well enough, let’s go.”

  “Now? In these?” Arvid glanced down at his flower-embroidered front.

  “They will not recognize you,” she pointed out, but she was laughing at him; he could see it in her eyes. “We will let your kteknik gnome know where you’ve gone, and then see if your horse was sold, while others look for the missing boys.”

  In those clothes Arvid felt as conspicuous as a cow in a kitchen, despite seeing at least half the population dressed similarly. A disguise, yes, but he preferred concealment by shadow, in the night, not this.

  The first of the horse-dealers specialized in teams; Arvid left the Marshal-General chatting with the man and strolled through the barn … no, his horse was not concealed in a back corner or in the yard where an old swaybacked roan dozed in one corner. The second, nearer the east gate, had more saddle horses, including a dark bay with three stockings and a thin stripe, drinking from a stone trough alongside two chestnuts and a gray. “There he is,” Arvid said.

  “You said white only on the off hind.”

  “So I did. That’s not natural white—it’s whitewash.” Arvid pursed his lips and whistled. The horse jerked up its head and looked around.

  “Well, that looks—” The horse dipped its head again. “—like a horse that alerts to whistles,” the Marshal-General said. “So how do you propose to prove it’s yours?”

  “Soap and water,” Arvid said. “It’s an amateurish job. I can tell that from here.”

  The horse-dealer protested. “It can’t be stolen. That Marshal told me—a Marshal from up there.” The man pointed his thumb up the hill. “He said it was his, and he wanted something quieter, not so flashy.”

  “Did he say why he bought it in the first place?”

  “No … t’horse was jerking on the lead. I thought maybe he was heavy-handed.” The horse-dealer watched Arvid scrubbing at the white on the near fore. “I swear, Marshal-General, I didn’t know … he was a Marshal; I never even thought about it—”

  “There we go.” Arvid spoke up. Patchy black showed through the white now. “See that?”

  “Yes.” The horse-dealer grimaced. “And I paid …” His voice faltered as Arvid looked at him. “Two gold crescents.”

  “I’ll wager he didn’t haggle,” Arvid said.

  “No, but I thought … he’s a Marshal, see.”

  “Did you record the purchase?” the Marshal-General said.

  “Yes, Marshal-General, just like the Code says.”

  A full glass later, Arvid’s horse was back in a stall at the Gird’s Hall stables and the gnome was back at his side; he had finally told Arvid his name, Datturatkvin. “But for humans, Dattur alone is enough,” he said.

  Arvid nodded. “Thank you, Dattur, for the gift of your name.” He turned to the Marshal-General. “Are there other stables here, or just this one?”

  “The knights have their own, and so do the paladins and paladin-candidates,” the Marshal-General said. “Why?”

  “Would someone instantly notice an extra saddle and bridle, do you think?”

  “Not with all the concern focused here,” she said. “I’ll go with you.”

  Dattur found Arvid’s saddle stuffed into a grain bin in the knights’ stable; Arvid recognized his bridle in a tangle of those awaiting mending in the tack repair area. “Someone is clever,” Arvid said. “He—or she—had limited time to suggest I was guilty … to dispose of my horse, tack, pack in only a few turns of the glass, without being noticed. I wonder, how many non-knights come into this stable? Would the stable help know if someone did?”

  “In daylight, certainly. At night, there’s a watch going the rounds, but no specific guard.”

  From her tone, this might change. Arvid nodded. “So anyone who knew the watch schedule could come in here, dispose of the tack … What about the guest stables?”

  “The same. But do you have any idea where the boys might be, if they weren’t killed?”

  “No. I don’t know this city. You’ve tried cisterns, I suppose, and granaries … any place big enough to hold boys and secure enough they couldn’t get out?”

  “Not yet. Not all of them.” She looked pale; Arvid realized she must feel responsible for the boys’ safety.

  “If I were the thief,” Arvid said, “I’d be busy enough disposing of that horse and my tack—that must’ve been done while the horse-dealer was still up, willing to make a deal. Then finding a hiding place for the necklace. I don’t think I’d waste time putting the boys anywhere difficult … just enough to keep them out of the way while I escaped. It would take a hard man to kill two boys who happened to see him, which is what I suspect happened.”

  “Would you?” she asked.

  “No,” Arvid said. “I might knock them on the head enough that they’d be silent. Put them in a pantry or something.” He thought a moment longer. “Say the boys were in the School, as they ought to have been, and heard something—saw something—maybe my things being taken from my room. They’re discovered—maybe they didn’t think to conceal themselves. It’s not easy to silence two boys and then carry them any distance. I’ll wager they’re still in the School barracks.”

  “Nobody’s reported anything.”

  “Let me look.”

  As they came into the forecourt, Arvid called over two boys carrying a barrel slung from a pole. “When you don’t want to be found, where do you go?”

  They glanced at each other, then at the Marshal-General.

  “It’s important,” she said. “We think Baris and Tamis are hurt.”

  “Well … there’s the back cellar. We’re not supposed to go there, but Baris found a trap-door.”

  “Show me.”

  There they found the two boys, bound and gagged, both with bruises suggesting they’d fought hard and unsuccessfully and been knocked unconscious. Tears had left streaky tracks down their dusty, bruised faces.

  Baris, as soon as the gag was out, said, “It was a Marshal—a Marshal of Gird—I couldn’t believe—”

  The other boy, smaller, said nothing; he seemed scarcely aware.

  “Get him to the infirmary,” the Marshal-General said. She turned to Baris. Arvid had cut his hands free, and the boy was rubbing his wrists. “So, Baris, can you walk? Or shall we carry you upstairs for a good meal?”

  “I—I can walk,” he said. He staggered with his first step, but his gait steadied. He accepted help on the stairs, but beyond the bruises and paleness, he seemed unharmed.

  The Tra
ining Master insisted on his cleaning up before a meal, but soon enough he was seated in the Training Master’s office with a tray in front of him and the Marshal-General and Arvid seated on either side. While he attacked his food, the adults talked of other things.

  As the color came back into the boy’s face and his eating slowed, the Marshal-General said, “Baris, can you tell us now what happened? You said a Marshal of Gird—do you know which one?”

  “No, Marshal-General. It was my fault, anyway—”

  “What was?”

  “Tamis being involved. You know the older boys are in the upper bunks—he had the lower one. I woke up—I needed the pot—and as I was climbing down, I heard something—and I slipped and kicked Tam, by accident. He woke up. Then he heard it too.”

  The rest of Baris’s story included seeing a grown man in a Marshal’s tabard in Arvid’s guest-room, stuffing Arvid’s clothes into his pack. The boys had watched; Baris had to keep shushing Tamis, who wanted to ask questions, but they’d been caught when the man came into the corridor. Before they could do anything, the man had knocked Tamis senseless; Baris, shocked to stillness for a moment, found himself gagged with a glove before he could cry out. He tried to struggle, but the man overpowered him with a few blows. A hand at his throat, and the next thing he knew, he was bound and gagged in the cellar, with Tamis beside him.

  “Did you see anything distinctive about him?”

  “No … well, he had something glittery around his neck.”

  “Glittery?”

  “I just saw it for a second, when he had my throat—a bit of it, anyway, where his shirt was open.”

  “The necklace,” the Marshal-General said.

  “I’m sure,” Arvid said. To Baris, he said, “You are lucky to have been found.”

  “It was not luck,” Baris said. “It was Gird. I prayed, and I’m sure Tamis did, too. I knew someone would find us. How’s Tam?”

  “In the infirmary,” Arvid said. “Luck came almost too late for him.”

  “Gird came soon enough,” Baris said.