Divided Allegiance

by Elizabeth Moon

  "Yes," said Paks. "What is it?"

  "You're a fighter, aren't you? I mean—I know you are, but isn't that—I mean, don't you make your living that way?" All this in a rush.

  "Yes," said Paks, trying not to laugh. "Why?"

  "Well—" The girl looked down, then back at Paks. She was as tall, Paks realized, and nearly as broad-shouldered. "I want to be a fighter too," she said finally. "I—they laugh at me here, the people in town. I want to show them—the Marshal says I'm good—"

  "Umm." Paks looked at her wrists. They were strong, already marked with training scars. "Well, I can tell you it's possible. I did it. But—"

  "I know—I know. They say—those who saw you fight today—they say you're good. The senior yeomen told us, too, after they'd drilled with you. I know I can do it too. But will you let me?"

  "Let you? How do you mean?"

  "I want to—to train with you. Like a—a squire, or something."

  "But I'm not a knight." Paks stared at her, bewildered. "I don't need a squire—"

  "I'll earn my way," the girl went on, heedless. "I swear I will. I'm a hard worker, and I'll do anything you say, if you'll let me fight beside you."

  "Listen—" began Paks, then stopped. She remembered too well how much she had wanted what she now had. What could someone have said to her, at that age? "I don't even know your name."

  "Suli—"

  "Suli, it's not that easy—I don't know what I'll be doing next—"

  "You're not going to quit fighting!"

  "No. But I don't know when—or what—yet. I don't even know what training you've got. What if you can't—"

  "You could talk to the Marshal—or even Ambros. They know me. Please, Lady Paks—I'll do exactly what you say. I can groom your horse, and take care of things—"

  "If you want to learn to fight, Suli, why don't you join a mercenary company? The Halverics recruit around here, don't they?"

  Suli shook her head. "I've heard about that—all marching and drill, and the same old thing day after day. I could do that here—just drilling with the yeomen. I want—" She looked down the passage as if across a field. "I want excitement. Battles. Travel. Like you've had."

  Paks grinned. "Suli, I started as a mercenary. Gods above, I had as much travel and excitement as I could take. It's the best training—I swear it."

  Suli shook her head again. "And you left. Why should I do it at all, when it's not what I want in the end? Please, please let me fight with you. If you don't like me, after awhile, then you can send me away. But give me a chance." Her eyes held a look that Paks could not name—she was flattered and disturbed at once.

  "I'll think about it." Paks started down the passage; Suli was at her shoulder. She started to speak, but Paks held up her hand. "No, I didn't say yes. What does your family think about this?" She could hardly believe she had asked that. She, who knew only too well what families thought.

  Suli scowled. "My family—they don't get along here. My dad's a trapper. He does a bit of day work in the tannery sometimes. He's gone mostly, expects me to take care of everything. But my brothers—they're old enough to work, and all that. I don't care what he thinks."

  "Mmm." Paks turned to the stairs. "My father didn't want me to leave either."

  "You see? I said we were alike. Please—"

  "Enough, Suli. I said I'd think about it." Paks could see the others still clustered around two tables pulled together. Arvid and one of the yeomen were arm wrestling. Mal looked up and waved to her; she came to the table, aware of Suli watching her back.

  "We were wondering if you'd decided to leave us for good," said Mal.

  "No. Suli wanted to talk to me."

  "Oh." Mal and several of the others exchanged glances. "Is she bothering you?"

  "Bothering me? No. She has an exalted idea of my achievements." Paks snatched the top of a pile of fried cakes a serving girl put in front of Mal. "Good luck for you," she reminded him; the others roared.

  "By Gird's arm, you're quick," said Mal, slightly redder than usual. "I never had anyone turn that trick back on me."

  Paks smiled with her mouth full. A tankard appeared in front of her. She picked it up and took a sip.

  "Seriously," began Ambros, "if Suli pesters you too much, I'll speak to her."

  "I should speak to you, rather. She wants to train with me—and work with me. As a squire, she said—but you know I'm not a knight, what would I do with a squire?"

  "As for that, you know much more than she does. She fights well, for the little training she's had—but she's got no more experience in actual fights than I have."

  "Not exactly," said Mal. "She's been in some rows."

  "Brawls," said Ambros. "That's not the same."

  "No, I know that. She's an interesting girl, though." Mal took a long pull at his tankard; one of the other men shook his head. "Seriously—she's one of the best of the junior yeomen."

  "As far as fighting goes—but fighting's not all of it," said Ambros.

  "Well, it's the most important part, isn't it? For Girdsmen, anyway. You know she's not happy here, Ambros—not since Deordtya left. She wants—"

  "She wants excitement and glory," said Ambros tartly. "She's more apt to get a broken head. Or don't you agree, Paks?"

  Paks nodded slowly. "I told her she should join a mercenary company for more training. I haven't seen her fight; I don't know what she can do. Still, I can understand—I couldn't wait to get away from home. If someone like me had come through Three Firs, I'd have walked on fire to talk to her."

  "I can't recommend her exactly," said Ambros, looking at his hands, "but I think she'd be honest and loyal. If you want someone—"

  "I hadn't thought about it." Paks took another fried cake off Mal's platter. She wondered what it would be like to have a squire. The Duke had squires—she tried to imagine herself coming down that trail from the ruined wall, and someone like Suli throwing herself between an enemy and her own shield. It didn't seem right. She was not a knight; she had never been a squire herself; she didn't know what a squire should do, or how to teach it.

  "Many free swords travel in pairs or trios," said Mal. "Then they have someone they can trust." He leaned back to let the other yeomen past—they nodded to Paks and Ambros, and went out.

  "Sometimes." Ambros shook his head. "Not always. But if you wanted to hire her, Paks, go ahead. I don't think you'd do her any harm, and though she's a little wild, she'll serve you honestly."

  "Is she a Girdsman?"

  "Well—not exactly. She's not old enough for the final oaths, and her family isn't Girdish. She's sworn to the local grange only. Of course I'd rather she found a Girdish patron—"

  "I wondered about that."

  "But you seem honest enough yourself. Master Cedfer hopes you'll end up a yeoman of Gird."

  "I might," said Paks thoughtfully.

  "If it's permitted to answer," broke in Arvid, "I'd like to know if you found how those robbers were fencing their spoils."

  "Fencing—?" Paks didn't know the term. Ambros did, and looked sharply at Arvid.

  "He means, Paks, selling stolen goods somewhere—thieves call that fencing them."

  Arvid smiled. "So do others, young sir—I see that you know the term."

  Ambros scowled. "Indeed—honest men must learn thieves' speech or lose by it. But to answer your question, as much as I may—no, we didn't find out where the goods are being sent, or how."

  "I told Paks, yeoman-marshal, that I did not believe those men had been thieves for long." Arvid sipped his ale, and went on. "I know you are suspicious of me—but that is the truth. And if I'm right, then someone else is running them—taking the stolen goods, fencing them—and that person, not those poor men, is the dangerous one. Until that person is caught, these attacks will continue." Paks saw a gleam of interest in Mal's eyes, but he was apparently relaxed and half-asleep, leaning on the wall.

  Ambros leaned forward. "How, if Paks has killed or captured all the active rob
bers?"

  Arvid snorted. "How hard is it to fool poor men? How were those men trapped into thievery? As long as the world holds men whose arms are stronger than their wits or will, just so long will subtle men find simple ones to risk and die for them." Paks thought that could have more application than Arvid intended; she glanced at him and met a sardonic glint that set her mind on edge. Ambros missed it.

  "I think, sir," he said quietly, "that you and I—and Paks, perhaps—should have a quiet word together."

  "I think that indeed, young sir. Yet I would not have it noticed—for I am convinced that someone in this town is telling dangerous tales."

  "You may be right—"

  "I am," said Arvid with calm authority. "We must meet—and we must meet quietly."

  Mal sat forward. "Isn't that the way to be noticed, sir, in this town?"

  Arvid glanced at him. "You would know, I expect."

  Mal grinned broadly. "Oh yes . . . I would know. And if you're speaking to our yeoman-marshal, I guess I'd like to be there."

  "Mal!"

  "No offense, yeoman-marshal, but I've seen his sword-work, remember? You know I can keep quiet."

  Arvid smiled the same charming smile at Mal. Paks noticed that Mal simply absorbed it, without changing expression—he looked very much like a stupid country lout. "That's fine with me, sir. I am not intending assassination of your yeoman-marshal—or corruption, either—and you are welcome to watch me as closely as you wish."

  * * *

  The Council meeting that evening was straightforward. Paks, seconded by Mal, gave her account of the attack. Sir Felis reported his interview with the captured robbers, and turned over a list of the captured arms and other valuables. Paks was asked why she had not entered and explored the keep, but the Council accepted her explanation without surprise or comment. Even the Master Stonemason seemed content. They argued a bit over the arms, and finally awarded her a third of their value. Hebbinford recommended that the black horse be given to her outright, and after some discussion it was done. No one mentioned the master-thief that Ambros, Arvid, and even Sir Felis believed to be still lurking in the ruins.

  Afterwards, Ambros, Paks, Mal, Sir Felis, and Arvid all gathered at the grange. Arvid lagged behind them, and when they were all sitting down in the chairs Ambros fetched from the Marshal's study, he lounged against the door.

  "I have endured quite a bit of your suspicion," he said calmly. "I think perhaps I should tell you precisely what I'm doing here—though I should prefer that you don't tell everyone else."

  "Why not?" asked Sir Felis, looking grim.

  "Because I can be a great help to you," said Arvid. "If you choose to spread my fame too widely, I'll simply leave."

  "Well, then?"

  Arvid looked pointedly at Ambros. "The yeoman-marshal is the one I'd like to speak to. Will you, young sir, swear to say nothing of my guild or mission?"

  "I—I don't know." His hand was on his medallion. "If you're evil—"

  "Evil!" Arvid laughed. "Sir, I am not what you would call good, but I serve no evil deity—that I will swear, and on your Relic, if you demand it." He looked at Paks. "I am no more evil than this warrior—she is not Girdish, nor am I, but we have both spilled robbers' blood today alongside your yeomen."

  Ambros flushed. "I will keep your secrets, sir, as long as they do not dishonor Gird. But as to that, I will be the judge."

  "Fair enough. I trust the honor of the Fellowship of Gird." Arvid glanced around, gathering all their eyes on him. "Now: some of you—and many others—have thought I was a thief. I am not. I am, however, acquainted with the Thieves Guild." He paused, and the silence thickened. "I am, in fact, on a mission for them at this time."

  "And you ask me, a yeoman-marshal of Gird, to keep silence?" Ambros jumped up. Arvid's hand rested on his sword.

  "Wait, sir. Hear me out. Your own yeoman will tell you I was happy enough to attack robbers this morning; I am no thief myself. The situation is more complicated than that." He waited until Ambros was seated again, and then pulled a chair near the door for himself. "Now, be attentive. The Thieves Guild, however little you like its craft, is like any guild designed to keep the craftsmen in order. As far as its power runs, and that is far, it controls not merely the theft but also the sale of stolen goods. Some time ago, the Guild Headquarters in Vérella realized that caravans were being robbed near here—and their goods appeared distantly, sold without Guild authority. Or taxation." He looked around to be sure they were all listening. "You see the problem. It could not be permitted to continue. A renegade thief is a danger not only to you, but to other thieves. The Guild Council determined to find out who was responsible. They sent—investigators, I suppose you could call them. Your amiable Marshal, young sir, being a most diligent worker for good, caught one and scared another two out of town. Yet another disappeared entirely. So at last," he smiled at them all, "they sent me."

  "And you are?" asked Sir Felis in a low growl.

  "I am, as I said, Arvid Semminson. A man hired to find the false thief in charge of this operation, and either force him into the Guild, with full payment of dues and fines owed, or kill him."

  "But you're not a thief."

  "Oh, no. Never. Or at least, let's say that I am not presently in need of anything which it would be worth my while to steal. And I have no joy in theft, as some of our weaker members have. I have stolen a few items in my time—I suppose most people have—but does it make this lady a thief that she stole a ham in Aarenis while in flight from Siniava?"

  Paks was amazed that he knew about that—then remembered that she had mentioned "uncle's" establishment to the Marshal and Ambros. The others looked at her for a moment, a little confused by the change of emphasis.

  "Of course not," barked Sir Felis. "But—"

  "What I am saying, Sir Felis, is that I want this ringleader dead as much, if not more, than you do. It was obvious at once to me that the robbers we captured were not in charge. They had not been fencing caravans of goods anywhere—they were poorly dressed and dull of wit. Whoever has been running this operation is not stupid. So we all have an enemy still at large—an enemy, moreover, who knows that we know where he's hiding—and who is responsible for his defeat. I think he's powerful, and probably either a magician or something worse—he probably spelled those poor men to keep them in his power."

  "How would you know about that?"

  "Please—I am a man of experience in the world. All kinds of experience. Why should I not know of wizardry, and the greed of those who live by it? And, for that matter, something of the evil ones, as well. I judge we must move quickly against the ringleader, before he can gather new forces. I can help you—I am a skilled fighter, and I have other skills that you will find helpful. Underground in that old keep, for instance, you would find me a good tracker, and wary of traps. If you choose to let him go, you will shortly find that he is more powerful and dangerous—even deadly—to this whole community."

  "I thought of that," said Ambros suddenly. "I was telling Paks—if it's a priest of Achrya, say, then we must move quickly. Every day may be important."

  "Well, we can't do anything until the Marshal comes back," said Sir Felis. "You can't hope to go against anything like that by yourself, Ambros."

  "I don't know when he'll be back, Sir Felis. He said I wasn't to go chasing robbers, that's true—but this is different."

  "I don't see that. Orders are orders."

  Ambros sat up straight. "Sir Felis, with all respect, my orders come from Gird, as well as Marshal Cedfer."

  Paks saw a gleam of satisfaction in Arvid's eyes. Sir Felis shook his head stubbornly.

  "It wouldn't be the first time a junior officer thought he had divine guidance when he was simply aching for an adventure. I tell you, Ambros, that you're a fool if you tackle Achrya with a thief and a mercenary for aid." He gave Paks a hard look. "Assuming you're thinking of going with him. I think you're honest, but—"

  Paks felt a burst of ang
er. "Sir Felis, if you have cause for that—"

  "No. All right, I'll admit you've done well so far—I said it earlier. But you're all young, and like any young fighters, you've got the sense of a clatter of colts. Wait for the Marshal, Ambros. Don't drag others into your romantic dream." Sir Felis pushed himself up and made for the door, pausing beside Arvid. "And you, master thief-not-a-thief, if you push that boy into rash action, I'll not forget who started it."

  "Sir Felis," said Arvid coolly, "I'll not forget who was unwilling to root out the deepest evil." He moved aside from the door, as Sir Felis spat where his feet had been and went out.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Arvid's black-clothed form seemed to melt into the shadows as they moved farther away from the stairway, where dim light came from above. Paks felt a tightness in her chest. She did not like dark underground places, and wondered for a moment why she had agreed to come. Ambros nudged her in the back. She waved a hand at him, and took another careful step. Another. Surely it was ridiculous to come on something like this with only six, one of them an untried junior yeoman, an eager girl who would be all too likely to do something silly trying to prove herself. Arvid signalled, a wave of his arm, and Paks moved lightly toward him. He was the scout, accustomed, he said, to noticing traps. Paks, the most experienced sword fighter, came second.

  After her, Suli and Ambros together. Paks hoped the yeoman-marshal would be steadied by steadying the junior yeoman. Mal brought up the rear with Jori, a friend of his.

  "Door," said Arvid quietly in her ear. "I'll try it. Hinges right. Swings out." Paks flattened herself to the left of the door; she saw a gleam of teeth as Arvid smiled. He ran his hands over the door for a moment, then did something Paks could not see to the lock. A nod of satisfaction; he drew his own blade and slowly pulled the door open. Paks waited, ready to strike. Nothing happened. She craned her neck and looked. Even deeper blackness. A sour smell wafted out, a stench like old rotting leaves and bones. Arvid put his sword through the door. Nothing. With a shrug, he leaned around the frame, poking at the darkness as if it were a pillow.

  "Light?" asked Ambros softly. He had come quite close.