Limits of Power

by Elizabeth Moon

  Regar scowled at him. “You’re worried about me?”

  “It’s not an insult, dammit,” Arvid said. “It’s just a fact. Marshal Porfur didn’t know working with me on something as simple as hauling supplies to Fox Company could put you in such danger, nor did I.”

  “I’m not dead,” Regar said. “Or injured. And I did grab that man—”

  “So you did, and I’m grateful. Let’s not quarrel now. We’re supposed to be learning not to quarrel, aren’t we?”

  Regar snorted, half annoyance and half amusement. “Marshal’s been at me about that for years. It’s my nature.”

  Arvid raised his brows. “If Gird’s making me quit being a thief, don’t you think Gird might make you quit being quarrelsome?”

  Silence from Regar. Arvid sneaked a look at him. Regar actually looked thoughtful. At the camp entrance, Arvid reined in. “Where’s Count Arcolin?” he asked the sentry.

  “Off with a cohort checking a report of bandits,” the man said. “Where’s our pigs?”

  “Trouble,” Arvid said. “It was an ambush. Headman claimed he’d sold for a better price, refused to give the advance back, and then someone started shooting at us.” He showed the arrow that had been stuck in the seat back. “There are more of these on the tailgate and back of the seat.” The sentry craned to look, then nodded. “If you want my guess, this is some of the same sort you had in Vonja last year. Can I send someone to let the Count know?”

  “Captain Garralt is in camp. Tell him.”

  “Thank you,” Arvid said. He drove into the camp, turned the team over to the supply sergeant, and went looking for Captain Garralt, taking with him the arrows yanked from the wagon.

  “Damn,” the captain said when Arvid told what happened. “Cooks were asking when you’d get back with the critters. They have the poles up and ready. Market open today?”

  “Not for live meat,” Regar said. “Day after tomorrow.”

  “Should I bring back a carcass?” Arvid asked.

  “Probably best,” the captain said. “Any idea of the price?”

  Arvid didn’t know, but Regar did; the captain whistled, but handed Arvid the money. The team hadn’t been unharnessed yet, so they took the same wagon into the city. The only large carcasses left were not worth the price; Arvid managed to haggle them down but not, he thought, enough. Arcolin was not going to be happy, and neither were the troops.

  “How many is this for?” Regar asked as they started for the camp again, three rather scrawny beef halves in the back of the wagon.

  “Over three hundred,” Arvid said. “Safer to figure three hundred fifty.”

  “That’s … a town.”

  “Yes. And they eat a lot.”

  At the camp, the cooks scowled at the quality of the meat—and no wonder, Arvid thought—but Garralt had told them what had happened, and they did not complain to him. When they’d pulled the halves out of the wagon, he and Regar drove down to the stream and spent a half-glass cleaning the wagon bed.

  “I don’t see why,” Regar said.

  “Because the Count insists on it,” Arvid said. “For a man engaged in the business of killing and wounding, he has a surprising dislike of bad smells.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  As Regar had insisted he did not want Arvid in his house, Arvid expected they would spend the night in the camp, and so it proved. Before full dawn, they walked back to the city and Regar’s home and stoneyard. Regar banged on his house door, and his wife passed him a leather bag of tools, then shut the door again. By daylight, they were hard at work. Four other men showed up and began work under Regar’s direction.

  Arvid had never worked with building stone or brick in his life. Regar handed him a chisel and hammer and showed him a rough block. “This needs to be square. I’ve made a chalk line for you. Knock off anything outside the line; don’t knock off anything inside it.”

  “What if it breaks?”

  Regar snorted. “It won’t, not with that chisel.”

  Arvid put the chisel to the stone and hit it with the hammer. Ting. He couldn’t see that any stone had gone. Again. Ting. And again. Ting. Ting. Ting. He lifted the chisel and saw a pale line in the rock, no more.

  “Slant the chisel more. Like this.” Regar had come up beside him; he put his own chisel on the mark Arvid’s had made, slanted it toward the bulge, and hit it four times quickly. Ting-ting-ting-tonk. Three little chips and a larger one flew up. “Like that,” Regar said. “A little bit at a time.” He moved off to the other men, more than an armslength away, but Arvid didn’t remind him of the Marshal’s words.

  Arvid tried again. At a slant, the chisel hopped when hit, and he banged his knuckles on the stone. He kept going. His hands cramped, and his shoulders hurt.

  “Good day to you,” someone said at the yard entrance. Arvid glanced aside. Invarr stood waiting, and Regar walked toward him, brushing the stone dust off his hands. The other men did not stop their work. “How is your apprentice, Regar?”

  “Making a start,” Regar said. “Never used a chisel in his life, but he’s learning. I’ve had worse.”

  “Good, good.”

  Arvid went back to work. Now and again he had to stop and flex his hands, but the next time Regar came to see, he had a row of grooves, a total of a handspan wide, and the bulge was noticeably less. “That’s it,” Regar said. “Keep at it. After lunch we’ll take some stones to the building site and do the finish shaping there.”

  By midday, Arvid had bruises and scrapes and an ache in his back to go with the ache in his shoulders, arms, and hands. Regar’s wife appeared with a large pot of beans. She went back to the house and returned with a platter piled with flat round loaves of bread. One of Regar’s workmen brought back a large pitcher of ale from the nearest inn.

  They broke the loaves open and scooped up beans and shreds of goat meat. To Arvid’s surprise, the beans were tasty. A half-glass later, a wagon and team showed up—Regar must have ordered them, he realized—and Arvid helped load stone onto the wagon. The stones were just as uncooperative that way, unrelenting in their weight and bulk. Then it was off to the building site, walking alongside the wagon.

  Invarr’s new warehouse was on the east side of the city, within sight of the Fox Company camp, and Arvid wondered that he had never noticed it. “The important thing is that the stones are all laid level and set square—no leaning or it’ll fall,” Regar said.

  Arvid had never paid attention to building construction. Now he asked what “square” meant, and for the rest of the afternoon, as he worked until he thought he would fall over, Regar explained far more than he really wanted to know. Arvid didn’t hear all of it, as out of breath as he often was, but Regar seemed tireless … and very happy to have a new ear to bend.

  Arvid hoped tomorrow’s assignments from Arcolin would be something easy, but he suspected he’d have to make another trip out to get meat or livestock. At least tonight wasn’t a drill night.

  Arcolin called him in when he got to the camp, and Regar came along. “Garralt told me about yesterday. I think you’re right that this is related to what happened in Vonja. I’ve reported it to the Foss Council judicary, and they’re taking it up. You’ll be needed as a witness. In the meantime, I’m sending a patrol with you to pick up livestock west of town tomorrow. It’s a vill called Sweetcreek.”

  “I know them,” Regar said. “I have an uncle there.”

  “Good,” Arcolin said. “Then maybe we won’t have any more problems.” He looked more closely at Arvid. “Are you all right? You look—”

  “Tired,” Arvid said. “I’m just tired. I’m finding out how heavy stone is.”

  Dattur, who had been sitting silent across the tent, head bent over some sewing, looked up with a grin. “Good stone?”

  Regar turned and stared. “It’s a … a dwarf boy?”

  Dattur scowled. “Not dwarf. Kapristi. What you call gnome.”

  “But—”

  “Dattur is helping
me,” Arcolin said. “He is of the same tribe as those who live near me in the north.”

  “Is that why he’s wearing … colors?”

  “Yes,” Arcolin said before Dattur could answer. And to Dattur he said, “Regar is a mason here, building a warehouse for a merchant in town.”

  “Arvid helps him?” Dattur said, brow furrowed.

  “The Marshal commanded it,” Arvid said. “Every other day.”

  “You displeased Marshal?”

  “Er … yes,” Arvid said.

  “If you’ll take my advice,” Arcolin said, “ask our surgeon to clean out those gashes for you.”

  All Arvid wanted was to fall into bed, but he made his way to the surgeon’s tent, empty but for one pallet at the end where someone, the surgeon muttered, had been stupid enough to drink water from a ditch instead of a running stream and now suffered the consequences. He looked at Arvid’s hands, prodded his back muscles, and by the time he was finished, Arvid felt slightly better, though the interim had been unpleasant.

  Next morning, he was stiff but able to move around, and he chose to walk beside the wagon to loosen up while Regar drove. Two tensquads went with them, back through the city and out the west road, which soon turned to a rutted lane between hedges. The trip went smoothly. The village had the required animals neatly penned, and Arvid felt better for the walk.

  The rest of the ten days passed without incident. Regar went with Arvid to market in the city and out in various villages; Arvid chipped stone and hefted rocks in and out of the wagon and onto the wall. He learned to use string and chalk, bob and level, and made no complaint about the scrapes and bruises and broken nails he got from the unforgiving stones. He heard a lot about Regar’s wife, her family, the children, the problems Regar had running his own business.

  At the end of ten days, Marshal Porfur called them into the grange and looked from one to the other. “I hear from the other yeomen in town that you have indeed stayed close to one another as I bade you, day and night, for this ten days. I hope you’ve both learned something.”

  “I have,” Arvid said. Regar nodded.

  “And what is that?” the Marshal asked.

  “Regar is a hard worker, a good man, and a good father,” Arvid said. “I respect him.”

  “Regar?”

  “Arvid’s not a thief anymore,” Regar said. “I know that now. He works hard.”

  “Very well. And do you think, yeomen of Gird, that you could stand shoulder to shoulder to defend the people against evil?”

  “Yes.” They both spoke.

  “I am glad to hear it. I release you from this task but expect that you will remain in fellowship with one another—and with others. Let me see a proper exchange of blows before you go.”

  This time it was wooden practice blades the Marshal handed them. Each made a touch—Arvid could have made four to Regar’s one, but he finally understood this was ritual, not a reason to show off. They walked back through the city.

  “Stand you a mug at the inn,” Arvid said.

  “If you’ll let me stand you one,” Regar said.

  They drank their mugs in silence and parted with an arm grip.

  The next time the grange met for drill, Marshal Porfur announced that Count Andressat’s youngest son was missing. “You all know there have been brigands in our area,” he said. “We are fortunate to be in a well-managed region like Foss Council that hired an additional force to protect us. And now we know the Count of Andressat’s son is missing, believed taken, and a reward has been offered for information about him. I tell you this to make it clear that even a rich man with his own army is not perfectly safe. Even here in Ifoss, with Fox Company patrolling the roads, you know that a few villages have lost livestock and some have been injured. So every yeoman must be alert and ready to respond if there is danger. Some of you are old enough to remember Siniava’s War—and other wars before—and we must pray to be spared another. Yet we must prepare. When winter comes, Fox Company will be gone; we must defend ourselves if trouble comes.”

  “Who’s the enemy this time?” someone asked. “Is it Vonja?”

  “Why do you think Vonja?” Marshal Porfur asked. “They’re in the Guild League, same as Foss Council.”

  “Doesn’t mean they can’t be up to something,” the man said, standing forward. “My da said, in one of the battles in Siniava’s War, they ran like rabbits.”

  “That’s as may be,” Porfur said. “But running away isn’t the same thing as stealing someone’s son. What I want you to do is tell the yeomen who aren’t here—who’ve been skipping drill night—that this is no time to slack off. I think there’s trouble coming.”

  Arvid could feel the reluctance of these hardworking men to believe that skipping a drill night could put them at real risk. He said nothing, nor did any of the Fox Company soldiers attending that night. Drill went well, though the night was overwarm and even the walk back through the city did not dry all the sweat from working out.

  “They don’t know a thing,” one of the soldiers said.

  “You didn’t tell them anything,” Arvid said.

  “Not my place to go telling what the Company knows to the locals,” the soldier said. “You should know that much.”

  “I do, but … well, maybe they’ve heard Alured’s name in the taverns. Or that new name … Vaskronin. I wonder where he got that. It doesn’t sound like anything I’ve heard before.”

  “Made it up, like as not,” the soldier said.

  When they arrived back in camp, Arcolin called Arvid to his tent. “I need your expertise,” he said.

  “My expertise?”

  “You’re surely aware that soldiers are offered stolen goods from time to time. We warn them, but they see something gaudy and think of a brother or sister back home—”

  “You want me to stop them buying from thieves?”

  “Not … exactly. We’re being plagued by counterfeit coinage, and they get counterfeit coins in change—and then are accused of passing them when they try to buy something else. You knew this was a growing problem in the south, I assume.”

  “No … no, I didn’t.”

  “Well, it is. The Guild League coins have been respected for generations; the Guild League has had a system of testing that eliminated most counterfeits. The only difference between the Guild League mints was the design on the obverse, the seal for each city. That testing still does eliminate counterfeits of the types seen before … if the counterfeit is light in weight or the wrong density to be a genuine coin.”

  “It must be one or the other to be worth making,” Arvid said.

  “Yes, you would think so. But the Guild League is now seeing counterfeits—we found some last year—that have too much silver or gold. Mostly silver.”

  “That’s … ridiculous.”

  “Not if someone’s trying to trust in the coinage. It doesn’t matter which way it’s wrong—unpredictably wrong is even worse than predictably wrong. It slows down the transfer of funds.”

  “And what do you think I can do about that?”

  “As a merchant you have a reason to express concern, and as a former thief you may have ways of finding out who’s passing the counterfeits here in Ifoss. In Vonja last year it was a Guild trader who claimed he’d been coerced by a gang … He thought Alured was involved, and a family member had been taken.”

  “I can try,” Arvid said. “But I don’t know—the yeomen here know I was a thief—”

  “Porfur told them? He shouldn’t have.”

  “Somebody did,” Arvid said. “I thought it was Porfur and was surprised, but maybe his yeoman-marshal, Gan. At any rate, I think it’s likely others in the market will know. Makes it hard to ask questions without being noticed.”

  Arcolin looked thoughtful and worried both. “If the yeomen know … some of them trade all the way to Valdaire—could the Thieves’ Guild there find you here?”

  “It’s possible,” Arvid said. “There’s only a small Guild presence
here—most of ’em in Foss Council are in Foss itself. More traffic on the road, more … targets.”

  “Have they shown any interest in you?”

  “No. And I would know if they were,” Arvid said. “I’m keeping my oath, but I still have eyes and ears.”

  “Still … they could hear from the yeomen if they’re halfway competent.”

  “They could. At least the Marshal didn’t make me use my full name.” Porfur had insisted on knowing that full name but allowed him to keep using Burin as his surname.

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t ask you to do this…”

  “I don’t mind. It’ll be a challenge.” Arvid grinned. He relished the thought of getting back into that familiar world, even on the opposite side.

  “But it may be more dangerous than I thought—”

  “Danger,” Arvid said, “is my delight.”

  Arcolin looked at him a long time. “I hope you’re joking,” he said finally. “That’s the kind of thing I expect from boys who want to be squires.”

  “I was never a squire,” Arvid said in a more serious tone. “And I am good with danger. I will find counterfeiters before they find me.”

  “I hope so,” Arcolin said.

  Despite what Arvid had said publicly, he knew that it was only a matter of time before the Valdaire branch of the Thieves’ Guild penetrated his disguise and sent someone to assassinate him. As he had been on the other end of such assignments, he knew what precautions to take—and how little use they were if the assassin was truly skilled.

  Yet Ifoss seemed remarkably clear of Thieves’ Guild activity. His search for counterfeiters made no headway, and his activities in the market on Arcolin’s behalf did not lure so much as a pickpocket. Perhaps the penalties dealt to the vill harboring brigands had scared them away, or perhaps the Guild had ordered a pause in their activities—which could mean assassins were about to arrive.

  Despite the summer heat, Arvid never went out without his cloak and its useful pockets. He paid the Company armorer, with Arcolin’s permission, to make him a lightweight mail shirt, though it was miserable to wear in that season. He ate and drank only in company with others, and only what they ate and drank, never taking his eyes from his own mug and plate until he was through.