Echoes of Betrayal

by Elizabeth Moon

  Two lunged, making the mistake of doing so in parallel; Arvid swept both blades aside with his, but they were quick and recovered before he could take advantage. The third had thrust at Arvid’s cloak and now dragged at it, hoping to throw him off balance. Arvid slashed the cloak ties with his dagger, ducked his shoulder, and the cloak dropped off him, leaving him less encumbered than before.

  He did not look beyond the three, though he was aware of moving figures coming across the yard. He was fairly sure now this was the innkeeper and two of his men from the common room. If he could keep the thieves’ attention on him, the others would have a better chance.

  From near the postern, he heard someone call, “What’s this? What’s to do?”

  “Help! Thieves!” shouted the innkeeper, now running at the thieves, stave in hand.

  “Get out of the way!” one of the thieves snarled at Arvid.

  “No,” he said. They pressed forward, clearly desperate to get to the stairway and escape over the roof; all he had to do was hold them. Easier thought than accomplished, as they were his equal in skill. They had worked together before—he was beset with blades from above, below, and straight at his head and barely escaped death.

  Then one turned to face the threat behind. Arvid parried a thrust with his dagger and lunged, taking that thief behind the knee. He fell, and Arvid barely parried the thrusts of the other two … but Jostin and his door-ward Netta were close enough now, and both thieves fell to blows to the head. Arvid turned back to the wounded thief just in time to see Larin, the second door-ward, slam a club into the thief’s head.

  The night watch with his lantern on a pole was still by the postern; Arvid heard boots crunching through the snow outside.

  “Why didn’t you yell for help?” Jostin asked.

  “Not enough breath,” Arvid said, stooping to pick up the cloak. He did in fact have a stitch in his side. “Too much good food.”

  “Mardan’s dead,” Larin said. He looked at Arvid. “Did you see what happened?”

  “He confronted that one—” Arvid pointed with his boot, then bent and wiped his blade on the thief’s cloak, feeling all the familiar pockets and tools. He wanted a cloak like that again, the familiar black. “I was fighting the one over there—” He pointed to the body on the other side of the yard. “And there was another one, up on the roof there, head of the stairs. Mardan heard something and came out—I couldn’t get past the two of them fast enough.”

  Six men in the city militia’s uniform came in the postern, their short swords in hand. “What’s this?”

  “They’re all dead,” Jostin said. “No thanks to you. One of mine’s dead, old Mardan. If it hadn’t been for one of my guests who’s good with a sword, we could all have been murdered in our beds. Five thieves—and the postern makes noise, you know that. Why did it take you so long?”

  Arvid had retreated to the shadows of the cowbyre and listened to the discussion without taking part. The innkeeper wanted the thieves’ clothes and possessions to sell “to give old Mardan a decent passing.” The night watch claimed their traditional right.

  “If you’d been the ones who killed them, yes,” Jostin said. “But you didn’t show up until it was over.”

  “The lantern man was here.”

  “And did nothing.”

  After some wrangling during which Arvid finished cleaning his sword, wiping it with snow and a clean cloth, Jostin won. While Jostin’s men began the grisly business of stripping the bodies, he made his way through the cowbyre, past the inn’s own cart and cart horses, and then into the inn to fetch a sheet from his bed for Mardan’s body. Dattur, snoring, did not stir.

  Well?

  Arvid stopped short, sheet in hand. “Thank you,” he said. He didn’t mind saying that—he was alive, after all—but it still felt odd to be saying it to that one.

  A chuckle ran through his awareness. You will learn.

  “Why are you …” “Bothering me” would be rude. “Saving me” would be frightening to contemplate.

  A different voice this time. You are capable of more good than you know. Arvid had no idea who that was but was sure he didn’t want to know what “more capable” might demand of him.

  The first voice came again, the one he was increasingly sure was Gird. You do not know what you are. Neither did I.

  Arvid shivered and took the sheet out to the stableyard. Jostin or his door-wards had lit more lanterns. The night watch had gone back out to the street. The door-wards were dragging the bodies out the postern for the dead-cart to pick up in the morning. Jostin, kneeling beside Mardan’s body, looked up at him. “Thank you for that. Where did you find it?”

  “On my bed. Will it do?”

  “Yes, indeed. Poor old Mardan … so brave to go up against a man with a sword, and with only his club.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t—it was that third one up there, with the crossbow. Then the second came back up the stairs—and then—” Arvid was surprised to feel real sadness.

  “It’s not your fault,” Jostin said as he stood up and patted him on the shoulder. “You’d have saved him if you could, I know that. It’s amazing to me you lived—five of them—”

  “I give thanks to the gods,” Arvid said, surprising himself again.

  “Of course,” Jostin said. “Well, a crossbow—swords, all these knives—those will fetch good money in the right market. Their clothes—I don’t know. I’ll have them washed and mended …”

  “If you’re selling them, permit me to buy one of the cloaks,” Arvid said. “It will contribute to Mardan’s funeral fund, and I would have a dark cloak to wear instead of borrowing yours.”

  “I couldn’t charge you,” the innkeeper said. “Take what you want; you’ve more than earned it. Though I expect you’ll have no use for the weapons.”

  “None at all,” Arvid said truthfully. He had the same tools already neatly disposed in the pockets of his plaid cloak. “One sword and one dagger are enough for any honest man.”

  Tsaia: North Marches

  Jandelir Arcolin rode east from the stronghold, bitter north wind bringing tears that froze on his cheeks. Behind him, the stronghold held only staff and the recruits, and he had to decide whether to let the troops now quartered near the Pargunese border come back to the stronghold for Midwinter Feast.

  Kieri’s earlier warning of possible unrest in Pargun had been followed—almost two tendays in transit—by a sharper one given to King Mikeli in Vérella and sent on to Arcolin. The Pargunese king and his brother were competing for the throne; civil war was imminent unless the Pargunese attacked outside. Both Lyonya and Tsaia were at risk, Kieri warned.

  The count to Arcolin’s south had only four hands of troops to add to the border guard; King Mikeli had sent Royal Guards north to bolster the lands nearest the Honnorgat, but he—with two hundred twelve trained soldiers spread thin along the border—was expected to hold the northeast. Nothing had happened so far—not a sign that the Pargunese were moving to the west—but they had done so before.

  He wished he’d let Selfer and his troops come north, though they’d made a good escort for Andressat, he had to admit. But they were no use to him in the south.

  Ahead, the wrinkles in the hills were marked with snow; he squinted to be sure he was headed the right way.

  The camp, when he reached it, was laid out properly just as he’d expected: the ditch, the barricade, the jacks rows, the cooking tent. Cracolnya had the troops all lined up when he rode in. Arcolin dismounted and did a quick inspection. Kieri would have missed nothing; he must miss nothing. But they were all perfect, and Cracolnya knew it. Versin, Cracolnya’s junior, wasn’t there.

  “He’s taken a patrol south along the border to the next camp, sir,” Cracolnya said when Arcolin asked.

  Arcolin dismissed the cohort and followed Cracolnya into the mess tent. Cracolnya’s own tent, half the size of other officers’ tents, had always been a Company jest.

  “Anything new from the Parg
unese?”

  “Not directly,” Cracolnya said. “What I do have to report, though, is startling enough. One of my patrols ran into a party of gnomes.”

  “Gnomes! There aren’t any gnome princedoms up here. They’re all down south, along the flanks of the Dwarfmounts.”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” Cracolnya said. “But it’s not what the gnomes think. Apparently this was once theirs—the hills of northern Pargun and some of the hills Kieri thought were his.”

  “I haven’t seen a gnome north of Vérella in my whole career,” Arcolin said. “And those were traders.”

  “My patrol rode back with eight: they said they were speaking for their prince.”

  “Where are they?”

  Cracolnya nodded to the west. “They won’t stay in our tents; they burrowed into that hillside, near as I can tell. Disappeared into the rocks, the way they do. They want to talk to you.”

  “Tonight?” Arcolin thought of the icy wind and the darkness.

  Cracolnya shrugged. “I doubt they’ll mind waiting until morning, and if they do, they’ll come wake us up. I told them I expected you.”

  “If they’re claiming any Tsaian lands, I’ll have to tell the king,” Arcolin said. “I don’t know what he’ll do.”

  “He’ll yield them,” Cracolnya said. “Gird’s own word binds him—and us.”

  “Makes it easier for the Pargunese to flank us,” Arcolin said. “They aren’t bound by Gird’s word.”

  Cracolnya grinned. “If what the gnomes said is true—and they’re not liars—we won’t have to worry about the Pargunese. They had some kind of civil war amongst themselves, the gnomes said. Then they attacked Lyonya, but that failed, and they’ve been thrown out of those hills for breaking some rule.”

  “Now I’m curious,” Arcolin said. “But also cold, hungry, and tired.”

  “We can fix that,” Cracolnya said.

  The next morning, the wind had dropped, though it was no warmer. Arcolin watched the troops as they came through the breakfast line, and Cracolnya watched him. “Any good news about Stammel?” Cracolnya finally asked in a low voice.

  “He’s still blind,” Arcolin said. “He can sense light a little, he says. Turn his face to the sun or a lamp. But he can’t see anything clearly.”

  “They’re asking,” Cracolnya said, nodding at the troops.

  “I wish I had better word,” Arcolin said. “He’s—well, you know him. He does not complain, but he is losing hope.”

  “The gods should heal him,” Cracolnya said. “After all he’s done—and killing that demon-thing—”

  “We’ve prayed,” Arcolin said. “The Marshals in Cortes Vonja, the Marshal here, all of us who are Girdish and probably most of those who aren’t. If I were a god—or a paladin—”

  “Thought of sending for Paks?”

  Arcolin shook his head. “She’s not mine to command now. If she came, it would be because the gods sent her, and then it might do some good, but if she came on her own … I don’t think so.” He looked at his boots and then at Cracolnya. “I don’t know what to do … He’s said himself he can’t function as a senior cohort sergeant, but I’m afraid he’ll … waste away somehow, just die in a year, if I don’t find the right job for him. He was useful that last few tendays in Aarenis.”

  “The Blind Archer,” Cracolnya said, nodding.

  “That and other things. He still knows more about the Company, about soldiering, than even Devlin, and he’s … well … Stammel.”

  “Recruit training?”

  “He says if he can’t see them, how can he hold inspections? And outside he needs a leader to get around. That girl—Suli—they called her Stammel’s Eyes, but she’s in Valdaire this winter with the rest. Wasn’t fair to use her for his guide, he said. And I agreed.”

  “Good soldier?”

  “Suli? Good enough. Survived a rough campaign year.” Too many hadn’t.

  “Did anyone ever ask Suli what she wanted? If she’s set on fighting, that’s one thing—though bodyguarding Stammel would give the opportunity, I’ve no doubt—but if she isn’t, then being Stammel’s guide isn’t so bad, and you’d have the benefit of his experience.”

  “Here come the gnomes,” Arcolin said, glad for a change of topic.

  Eight gnomes—their lucky number, as he knew—paused to announce themselves to the camp sentries and came directly to the mess tent. He did not recognize their uniform—neither Gnarrinfulk nor Aldonfulk, these had a darker gray braid trim down the front of the jackets and on the wristbands.

  The leader gave a stiff nod to both Cracolnya and him. “It is this one is your duke?”

  “I am Count Arcolin,” Arcolin said. “It is a new title, granted at Autumn Court. How may I address this one with due courtesy?”

  The leader nodded more deeply. “Count. This one is title Karginfulk estvin: one speaks to strangers in name of prince.”

  “Estvin,” Arcolin said. He had heard that title before but had never spoken to a gnome ambassador. “Be welcome. Would you enter, out of the wind?”

  “It incurs obligation,” the estvin said. Arcolin realized the gnomes would stand in the freezing wind until they turned to the gray stone they resembled if he did not find a way to convince them to enter. Hospitality to outsiders was not a gnome virtue. His ears and fingers ached with cold.

  “My gods impose on me the obligation of a host,” he said. “It is against law as we understand it to have visitors stand in a cold wind when shelter exists; I must ask you in.”

  For a long moment, the estvin stared at him without expression, then he nodded. “It is your law; it is not our Law. But it is not against our Law. Do you then admit we owe you nothing if we enter?”

  “I admit it,” Arcolin said.

  Inside the tent, Arcolin ushered the gnomes to one of the tables; the benches troops used were too tall for them, but when he offered to prepare seats for them, the leader refused. “Your law may require shelter to be offered, but not comfort. We will stand. You may sit.”

  Arcolin sensed Cracolnya’s annoyance at being allowed to sit in their own tent. “If you would bring sib,” he said to Cracolnya. “There’s still plenty hot.” To the estvin he said, “I would offer a hot drink at no obligation, neither asking nor wanting any exchange.”

  Another long silence, then the now-familiar stiff nod. Arcolin sat, facing across the table a row of dour gray gnomish faces. They said nothing, nor did he, until Cracolnya and one of the cooks brought a tray with a pitcher and nine mugs.

  “If you don’t need me, my lord Count, I can get on with the day’s work,” Cracolnya said.

  “Occupy the troops in camp until the estvin and I have finished talking,” Arcolin said.

  “Yes, my lord,” Cracolnya said. Arcolin hoped the gnomes did not recognize the bite of sarcasm in his tone.

  “The man who held this land,” the estvin said without more preamble, “he fought against Pargun.”

  “Duke Phelan, yes. Pargun and Tsaia—”

  “Enemies.” The estvin put up his hand, and Arcolin fell silent. “It is not blame to that man; he did not know. And the prince forbade …” The estvin paused, sipped at the sib, then set down the mug. “It is Law that however wrong comes—by intent, by chance—wrong makes debt. Intent makes blame, but no-intent can make debt. Is clear?”

  “In the Code of Gird intent to harm makes a crime—a wrong—worse. Without intent—no-intent—can still require a payment but not punishment.” Arcolin paused. The estvin regarded him with no more expression than before, then spoke.

  “Gird was—” The estvin shook his head. “Cannot say in Common.” He stood even straighter than before. “But is time short, before must be done. You go.”

  “Go?”

  “Go. This land not for you. Not for Pargun.”

  “I don’t understand,” Arcolin said. “This land has been Tsaian—and in this domain, now mine—since—”

  “Since that duke fought Pargunese and pus
hed back. Not far enough. It is not land for humans.”

  “For gnomes?”

  Now the blank face finally showed expression: grief. “It is not land for rockfolk. It is not land for Law. It is land for—” He uttered a long word Arcolin could not begin to pronounce.

  “What is that?” Arcolin was thoroughly confused.

  “Elder,” the estvin said.

  Gnomes were Elders, like dwarves and elves. “Elves?” he asked. What other Elders were there?

  “Pargun attack Lyonya,” the estvin said, as if that explained anything; he went on. “Pargun delve forbidden hill. Blackbone hill. Should not be. The—the sfizn rocks there, they break. Must not be.” Now that stolid face glistened as if sweaty, and the dry, emotionless voice trembled. “Karginfulk fail. Karginfulk must go.”

  Arcolin felt his brows rise. Gnomes leaving their native rock? And what was sfizn rock? He knew dross and nedross, dwarf terms for the sound and the unsound rock, but sfizn?

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “What has this to do with us—with my realm?”

  The estvin turned to one of the other gnomes, who produced a thick wad of cloth from under his jacket and unfolded it on the table. Arcolin stared at the most beautiful map he had ever seen. The Honnorgat—every bend and crook of its path, every tributary. Hills, every one shaded so it seemed to stand up from the cloth. In fact, he realized as he concentrated on their location, the map was not static—it enlarged what he stared at, brought up details impossible to see before.

  “When shipfulk—sea-fulk—came to here—” The estvin pointed at the distant eastern shoreline. “And upriver to here—” He ran a stubby gray finger up the line of the Honnorgat to the great falls. “They ask land-right of the prince, who then had rock-right here—” He spread his hand north-south from the falls and a handspan wide, more downriver than up. “Our prince saw they had order, though not Law, and granted surface land-right only, for we have no use for wet dirt or trees. Our prince set limits.” He ran his finger in a broad arc that Arcolin saw encompassed where now lay both Pargun and Kostandan. “Not past rock-water, where ships cannot go. So those sea-fulk made pledge.”