He was in the market, buying fresh fruit for the camp, when the first attack came. He caught sight of someone in an alley smoking a pipe … no, a short blow-pipe. It would use darts. Arvid snatched a bullwhip from an astonished teamster and snapped it in the man’s face; the man screamed and dropped the pipe. It shattered on the ground; a second man grabbed the first by the shoulders and pushed him down the alley.
Arvid looked at the broken pieces of pipe and the dark poison-tipped darts that lay beside it.
“That’s my whip, you thief,” came an angry voice from behind him. The teamster and two other men had charged after him.
“It is indeed,” Arvid said, handing it back despite the man’s red face and furious expression. “That fellow was trying to kill me. Look—” He pointed at the broken pipe and the darts.
“What’s that?”
Arvid explained. One of the other men bent to pick up a dart. “Don’t!” Arvid said. “They’re tipped with poison.” The man jerked his hand back.
“How do you know that?” the teamster asked. He had coiled the whip and looped it to his belt. “What are you?”
“Oh, he’s that merchant with Fox Company,” one of the others said. “I’ve seen him with the captain and at the grange, too.”
Arvid nodded. “That’s right. I’m Ser Burin. I came from Valdaire with Fox Company.”
The teamster still looked suspicious. “But how did you know those were poison darts? And where did you learn to use a whip like that?”
“I did not start as a merchant,” Arvid said. “For a time I drove a team—freight—for a merchant.” He had, though only briefly. Mixing experiences, he went on. “Brigands use poisoned darts. Lost a guard to one once.”
“And where was that?” the teamster said.
Arvid shrugged. “Over the mountains, in Tsaia. Up there they use blow-pipes a lot.”
“Oh.” The teamster relaxed. “Never seen anyone but a teamster or a cattle drover so fast with a whip.”
“It’s not a skill you forget,” Arvid said.
“Was he trying to kill you or someone else?”
“I’m not sure,” Arvid said. “I’ll take these things to Marshal Porfur.”
“You should report this to a judicar,” one of the other men said.
“I’ll find one,” another man said.
Soon Arvid found himself explaining to a judicar what the broken pieces of clay were.
“You’re the one was attacked in that village, weren’t you? You spoke at the trial of the villagers who broke contract with Count Arcolin.”
“Yes,” Arvid said.
“This was probably revenge for that testimony,” the judicar said. “Brigands, I expect—I don’t think those villagers would risk another judgment.” Arvid had not thought of that possibility and accepted it gratefully as an alternative to explaining why the Thieves’ Guild would be targeting him. “Would you recognize the men again?” the judicar asked.
“One should have a whip strike on his face,” Arvid said. “Other than that—I saw the face only with a blow-pipe to it, and never saw the face of the one who guided the first one away. Both were, I would say, about my height.”
The judicar took charge of the broken pieces of pipe and the darts. Arvid went to Porfur’s grange, impelled by a hunch rather than a voice in his head.
“I need to talk to Marshal Porfur,” he said to the yeoman-marshal who answered the door.
“He’s teachin’ the childer,” the yeoman-marshal said.
“When will he be done?” Arvid asked.
“Another turn of the glass,” the yeoman-marshal said. “Anything I can help you with?”
“No,” Arvid said. “Unless … you know the time Regar and I were attacked?”
“Yes, of course,” the yeoman-marshal said.
“Well, it seems the brigand who came to that village may want revenge. Someone nearly killed me this morning with darts from a blow-pipe.”
The yeoman-marshal scowled. “Did you tell the judicars?”
“Of course,” Arvid said. “But the men got away—the man with the pipe and the man helping him. I do not know if trouble might come to the grange because of that.”
“Have you warned Regar?” the yeoman-marshal said.
“No, I came straight here,” Arvid said. “I suppose I should have gone to him first—”
“Not necessarily.” The yeoman-marshal opened the door wider. “Come on in; Marshal’s in the barton, but I’ll let you in the side entrance.”
Marshal Porfur had a double arc of children sitting on the ground around him. As they entered the barton, one of the children stood up and recited the seventh of the Ten Fingers in a squeaky voice.
“Excuse me, Marshal,” the yeoman-marshal said. “There’s a problem.”
Marshal Porfur looked at the sandglass beside him on the ground; most of the sand had run out.
“Short or long?” he asked. Then, with another look at Arvid’s face, he nodded and stood. “Long, I suspect. All right, juniors—that’s all for the morning.”
The children scrambled up and headed for the street gate.
“Just a moment,” Porfur said. “You have forgotten order, I believe.”
They halted, turned, looked at one another and then at him, shuffled into two lines, then recited what was obviously a rote ending to the school day. “Thank you, Marshal, for your instruction. Gird’s blessing be on you, and Gird’s guidance on us.”
“That’s better,” the Marshal said. “Go with Gird.”
When they had left, slamming the barton gate behind them, Porfur turned to Arvid and the yeoman-marshal and raised his brows.
Arvid told his tale again.
“I don’t see that it would cause trouble here,” the Marshal said, “but I agree that Regar must be warned. We will visit him together. Do you know, Arvid, whether he will be at the stoneyard or at the building site?”
Arvid shook his head. “It varied from day to day, the time I worked there,” he said. “He always started the day in the yard but sometimes left for the site by midmorning and sometimes only after lunch.”
“We’ll start with the yard,” the Marshal said.
Arvid saw nothing to alarm him as they walked back through the city. It was near noon; the smells of cooking food made his stomach growl, but he ignored that, paying attention only to the flow of traffic, the interest or indifference of those they passed. When they turned into the lane that led toward Regar’s stoneyard, he felt something—as if he were being looked at with intent—but could not see anything.
Outside the stoneyard gate, they saw a wagon and team of mules. Nothing moved in the noon stillness. “They’re eating lunch,” the Marshal said.
“No,” Arvid said. “We’d hear talking. And the muleteer never ate here or left the mules.” He put off his cloak and drew his sword. The Marshal stared at him but did the same. Arvid motioned for silence, then pointed at the wall. The Marshal’s brows rose, but he said nothing as Arvid hoisted himself to the wall just high enough to see over. Regar, his wife, and several workmen lay gagged and bound; one of his other workmen was dead. Five men stood over them, silent for the moment. Arvid recognized two of them from the Guild in Valdaire; one had been on guard at the entrance when he’d carried his son out of the Guildhouse. He slid back down to the ground and motioned the Marshal away—out of earshot, he hoped.
He murmured an explanation to the Marshal and told him to get help. “At least a dozen. They’re very good with techniques your people don’t know.”
“And you?”
“I’ll distract them. Be quick.”
The unattended mule team was his best chance. They had brought a mule team for a purpose—probably to take their prisoners out of town unnoticed—so they would react to the team’s movement. On the other hand, they might kill their prisoners before chasing after him—a chance he’d have to take. He picked up his cloak again, bundled it under one arm, and strolled down the lane and past the wag
on.
Two of the mules swung an ear toward him; he saw that the first pair were hobbled. A quick slash of his dagger took care of that. Neither mules nor wagon bore a Guild mark; they’d been stolen, probably here in Ifoss. Arvid plucked the whip left coiled under the wagon seat and spoke in a whining country dialect: “What i’ Gird’s name ye’re doin’ here, y’rascals! Who took yeh? ’F it’s that Regar, I’ll have t’judicars on ’im!” Then he cracked the whip over the mules’ backs; they squealed and lunged into motion, the wagon rattling behind them. Another crack of the whip, and they broke into a fast trot. Arvid flattened himself against the wall and shrugged quickly into his cloak, slipping his arm into the leather bracer he’d installed there. He took his serrated throwing disk into his left hand.
Curses from inside and hurrying footsteps. By now the mules and wagon were three or four wagon lengths down the lane, and the mules seemed perfectly happy to keep going. Ahead, the lane sloped gently down to a stream. They picked up speed.
Two thieves burst from the gate, focused on the departing wagon. Arvid cut one’s throat before he was even seen; the other whirled—his blade already out—and opened his mouth to yell. Arvid threw the serrated disk; it severed the man’s windpipe, but not before he’d let out the first sound, and as he fell, his sword, like the other man’s, clattered on the stones.
Arvid retrieved the disk, snatched up the two swords—no time to collect the other weapons or any place to stash them—and darted back to the scant cover of the low wall. He stuffed one sword, naked as it was, into his belt, held the other between his knees while replacing the disk in its pocket, then took the sword in hand.
Down the street he saw a couple of men staring, but nothing of the Marshal and a posse. The men stood as if nailed to the ground; then one of them turned to run away, and one walked toward Arvid.
People who watched someone kill two men and then approached were not necessarily allies.
“Look out!” the man yelled, flinging up an arm.
Or maybe they were. Arvid jumped sideways, and the man on the wall, already jumping down where he’d been, stumbled on landing, off balance. Arvid made use of the sword, running it between the man’s ribs before he could get up. Another man was on the wall now; Arvid backed away from it. The man who had yelled to warn him was now calling for help, and others appeared from doorways. The man on the wall snatched a small crossbow from under his cloak; the bolt, Arvid knew, would be poisoned, and this close the bow had power to penetrate.
Arvid threw the sword—a bad throwing weapon but a visual distraction—and then his wrist knife.
The thief got off one shot, badly aimed, and the knife slashed the side of his neck. He dropped the bow to stanch the rush of blood, then jumped back off the wall on the inside. Someone else, Arvid knew, would pick it up and use it better.
“They’ve got Regar!” Arvid yelled down the street. “They’ve killed Gorlin! Call the Guard!”
Now the street had come alive—more men came out of doorways, some armed. Far down the street Arvid could hear the rhythmic thud of boots that he hoped meant either the city guard or Marshal Porfur.
He’d killed three and wounded one. He’d seen five. But on a mission to a distant city, after a known thief enforcer, would they send only five? Not likely. A minimum of two triads: six. So three were still alive, only one wounded. Where was the one he’d not yet seen? Where were Regar’s children? His heart contracted at the thought of the thieves taking those children.
As the other citizens approached, Arvid looked up at the house roof. Nothing. Back along the wall. Nothing … Wait … a crossbow’s prod, just above the wall, swiveling to bear on him; he leapt aside as a bolt zipped past and shattered on the building behind him.
Now the others were near, yelling; the bow disappeared. He charged the gate, saw the man with the crossbow running toward Regar and two more holding struggling children, dragging them toward the back of the stoneyard. Regar’s son was doing his best to kick the thief where it would hurt.
Arvid leaped for the wall to one side of the gap, pulled himself up, and jumped down onto the stacked blocks of stone. He took a moment to throw the serrated disk at the man with the crossbow; the man jerked aside and then ran to help the other two. Arvid followed, just as Regar’s son landed a hard heel in a soft and vulnerable spot. That thief yelped and loosened his grip. The boy wriggled free, grabbed a stone fragment from the ground, and tried to attack the thief.
Now the others were in the entrance, tangling with one another in their hurry. Arvid ignored that but for a quick glance to be sure no one was attacking his back. Could he save the children?
Call on me.
Not now!
NOW.
Something blurred his sight, a flat peasant face, broad and lined, yellowed gray hair. He wanted to argue with the voice—surely it knew about the children—but the face was there, in his way.
“Gird,” he muttered. “DO something!”
The face disappeared. Regar’s son’s rock connected solidly with one thief’s eye; the man yowled, dropped his dagger, and put both hands to his face. The boy hit him again, with a larger rock, and he went down. Meanwhile the third thief had taken one of the girls from the man who had struggled with both.
Arvid reached one of them, applied the necessary grip and force, and peeled the girl out of his grip. “Run,” he said to the girl, as he evaded a knife slash with the man’s other arm and tried to position himself to force the man down. But they knew the same tricks; they had the same training, the same weapons.
“I’ll kill her!” the last man warned, holding a knife to the throat of his captive. Arvid, fully engaged with his opponent, could do nothing. DO something, he thought at Gird. He heard more people coming—the thud and scrape of boots, the sound of blows, cries of anger and pain. Then a cudgel as thick as his upper arm came down past his nose on the thief’s head, and the man sagged. Before Arvid could shift his own blade, someone else had cut the man’s throat.
“Here—” A meaty hand reached down, and Arvid took it, pulling himself up. He’d seen the man who helped him up in the grange but had never talked to him. He looked around. Regar and his wife were both unbound, alive, though bruised and scraped; Regar had a broken nose and a black eye. The bound workmen, freed, were only bruised. Regar’s oldest daughter had run out the back with the two youngest; they were safe. Of the other three, the middle girl had a knife gash on the side of her neck, but she would live—the Marshal was already healing her.
All the thieves were dead. Their disappearance would hamper the Guildhouse at Valdaire, Arvid knew. With help—but the account would be laid to him—he had reft the Valdaire house of almost two hands now: the Guildmaster, the two who had taken him and Dattur away, and now these six. The Guild would want revenge, and they would take it where they could. Gird, guard my son!
“Thanks to Gird,” Marshal Porfur said, and the other men echoed. Arvid joined in, as he must; only a few of the men looked sideways at him as he retrieved the bloody throwing disk and tucked it away.
Regar, his broken nose healed by Gird’s grace and the Marshal’s skill, came to give him a brother’s hug. “I thought we was all dead, and the children, too. Thanks to you—”
“To Gird,” Arvid said. It came more easily from his mouth now.
“Yes, but you were the cudgel in Gird’s hand this time,” Regar said. “And if you’d not been a thief before, you’d not have known how to fight ’em. What can I do—?”
“Be wary,” Arvid said. “I’ve brought trouble on you, and more might come, though not for a while. They’ll need to hire from other houses. I’ll talk to the Marshal, get his consent to leave. If I’m not here, you’ll be safer.”
“But Arvid, man—”
“I’ll talk to the Marshal,” he said, and with a last squeeze set Regar aside, bowed to Lia, and went to the Marshal, now organizing the men to carry the bodies away.
“Six,” the Marshal said, puffing out his li
ps. “They sent six after you?”
“They knew my abilities,” Arvid said.
“Evidently not. They should have sent twice six.”
“They didn’t have twice six. Not like these.” He felt cold suddenly and shaky as the battle fever left him.
“You should eat and drink,” the Marshal said. “Come with me.” He gave a few more orders, putting one of the yeomen in charge, and led Arvid down the street to the first tavern.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I need to leave,” Arvid said, as they crossed the threshold.
“You think you can outrun them?” the Marshal said.
“No. But I think I can lead them away from here—from Regar and his family, from you and this grange.”
“Sit down, lad.” The Marshal settled into a chair at one of the tables and waved to the man at the bar. “You’ve not completed your year.”
“I know,” Arvid said. He leaned forward. “But I’m a danger to you, Marshal, and to the people here, the grange. The longer I’m away from here before they come again to find me, the better for you.”
“You still don’t understand,” the Marshal said. “Gird did not create this Fellowship to seek safety, but to provide protection to one another in danger. You say you’re bringing trouble, but your captain says it’s coming from the east, with that new Duke of Immer. There’s always trouble somewhere.” To the man who approached the table, he said, “Ale, bread, and honey.”
“I am not impugning your courage,” Arvid said, when the man had left. “I just don’t want—”
“To make trouble. I understand that, Arvid, and I respect it. You’ve come a long way from what I judge you were. Tell me: did you call on Gird in this fight?”
Arvid nodded.
“Good enough. And thanked him after. I heard. That was well done. But you should not leave without a plan, and I must know that plan.”
Limits of Power Page 37
