“He makes wood out of meat over there, I’m telling you,” Ivats said.
“My aunt M’dierra eats at inns, mostly,” Poldin said. “But she says it’s to do with business and makes me eat with her soldiers.”
“So you should,” Burek said. “Even captains eat with troops most of the time.”
“I ate in an inn once,” the boy said. “It was very good.”
The men laughed, sharing a thought over the boy’s head. He flushed.
“How far did you get with the inventory?” Selfer asked Burek.
“One room,” Burek said.
Ivats pushed back his chair. “Near time for my watch, I think.”
“Can I come?” the boy asked.
Ivats looked at Selfer, brows raised. Selfer nodded. “You can carry the lantern,” Ivats said.
Burek yawned in spite of himself.
“Go to bed,” Selfer said, grinning. “You’ve earned it.”
Walking across the court, Burek felt much older than he had when Arcolin hired him. He wasn’t sure when it had happened. The hard campaign the year before had been part of it, but having the cohort to himself when Arcolin rode to the north and left him in charge and then taking that patrol to escort Andressat home and all that happened there. Himself, Burek … Andressat. He grinned into the cold dark and then pushed open the door to his quarters. A lamp burned there; a brazier had warmed the room a little, and a bucket of water stood beside it. His bed, with its woolen blanket, stood along one wall; clothespress and pegs and an armor stand easily held everything else he owned.
For a moment only he compared this simple room to the elegance and luxury of his grandfather’s house, where he might have had an apartment, fine clothes, the deference of servants, the companionship of his noble relatives. Filis’s angry face came to him. Not companionship alone but enmity as well. He took a deep breath of pure satisfaction. This was his: this room and his reputation as a promising young officer were his by his own efforts. He could not despise his grandfather, or his own father for that matter. But he did not need them.
Arvid pulled on his gloves and nodded to Netta and Jostin, then pulled his hood forward and left the Dragon for the markets. Dattur had gone a turn of the glass before; that should be gap enough.
Low clouds hung over the city; though snow wasn’t falling, Arvid thought it soon would. At some little distance from the inn, as he headed downslope to the city center, Arvid spotted two apprentice thieves shivering in what they thought was concealment, waiting for someone who might be easy prey, and an older man who, though wearing a brown cloak, not black, would be their senior. The man strolled out, not too close, and then walked on ahead, apparently unconcerned. Arvid did not look to see if the apprentices had emerged from their corners; he knew they would. He himself stumped along with the shorter stride he had adopted as Ser Burin, looking now and then into shop windows. When that street met a wider one, he turned into it and then into a cobbler’s he favored, to be greeted there as Ser Burin.
“And your shoes is ready now, that broken heel all made new.”
Arvid lingered in the shop; he could feel the interest outside … Something had caught their eye. Was it the hang of his cloak, all those pockets? He had hoped the green and brown plaid, the fur collar and hood ruff, would deter suspicion. Many merchants had pockets in their cloaks, after all.
The cobbler took his pay; Arvid thought of asking for the shoes to be sent to his inn but instead hired the cobbler’s errand boy for the rest of the day. Thieves would be less likely to attack two; they might quit following him. Besides, he would need someone to carry the pots if he found them. He and the boy came out into the street, where he spotted the older thief and the two apprentices, now bunched together. His old master would never have allowed that. He stopped at the next baker’s stall and bought a sweet bun for himself and one for the cobbler’s lad and strolled on to the smiths’ square.
The pots he wanted for Fox Company were made by almost every redsmith or tinker. Arvid compared prices without losing track of his followers. He knew when they melted away and others replaced them. This time it was a woman and a man, pretending to be a couple, and their sulky daughter. It didn’t matter. He bought his pots, gave them to the boy, walked on to the next market area, where he greeted merchants he’d dealt with before. He bought more items he’d be able to sell for a small profit in another part of the city and two small stone jugs of mead for the inn. He put some small packages in his cloak pockets, making no attempt to conceal their existence.
A first snowflake fell in front of him, then others. He looked up. “Well, lad, I’d best start back. I need your help to my lodging, and then we need to get you back to your father.”
Anyone the thieves talked to would know he lodged at the Dragon; that was a risk he had to take. But risk the boy, if he were attacked? No, he could not do that. In the cobbler’s shop, he stood talking with the man as the snow came down more thickly.
“You want the lad to carry these for you, no doubt,” the cobbler said, pointing to the basket.
“No,” Arvid said. “I would make an extra trip then to see him safely home, and the snow’s coming down. I’d rather just have my dinner.”
“You’ll never carry all this yourself!”
“I’ve carried more,” Arvid said. He twirled the cloak off his shoulders expertly, the cobbler getting only a glimpse of pockets stuffed with parcels of various sizes.
“You could have given those to the boy,” the cobbler said.
“Yes, but he had plenty,” Arvid said, nodding to the basket. He pulled out his purse and paid the man for the lad’s services, then fished out another bun and handed it to the boy. “Thanks for your help. And as it’s getting dark, I’ll just put these things in my tunic and tighten the belt. It will serve for the short way I have to go.” As he spoke, he loosened the tunic’s ties and tightened his belt. The flat copper frying pans he slid to the back, over his kidneys; the pewter plates fit reasonably comfortably along his sides. He laced up the tunic after disposing the rest of the items where they might do the most good. Then he replaced his cloak and picked up the sack, still containing the stone jars of mead. He slung it back over his shoulder, and bade the cobbler good even.
Outside, though it was not snowing heavily, snow did cut visibility. The slatternly girl ahead of him—now with a gray scarf on her head instead of the blue she’d worn back in the market square—moved out of an alley no wider than she and walked slowly, shoulders hunched against the snow, angling across the street toward him. He did not look back. He knew, as if he could see behind him, where the pair would be. The turn to the narrower, steeper street to the Dragon was just there—he would have to come nearer to her to turn.
Instead, he walked on. The girl turned, as if hearing his steps, when he did not swerve across her path to turn into the lane where they’d first found him. Arvid grinned to himself. He was sure they did not suspect who he really was. They had watched a small-goods merchant dealing as they themselves sometimes dealt, cheap goods for small profits. And they had seen him go to the mercenaries’ winter quarters and return. He had not concealed that the mercenaries he’d met had given him a small commission. So now the thieves would want their slice of the pie they smelled.
A slice he was quite willing to give, but not of the pie they expected.
“HO! Look out! Thieves—!” A shout from behind, just as the girl moved closer; a yank to the sack over his shoulder would have pulled him over backward had he not expected it. He ducked that shoulder but kept hold of the sack; the thief had already let go, and he felt a blow in the back. Arvid whirled all the way around, the sack swinging wide with the weight of the jars in it. The man and woman behind him jumped back in time, but the slatternly girl, darting in with a wickedly long knife, took a solid hit and fell, snarling curses.
Arvid backed past her before she could clamber up, still whirling the sack to hold off the others. She grabbed for his leg; he evaded her easily
and aimed another swipe, this time hitting her head. The impact made a hollow thunk, and she fell flat, unmoving. Back down the street, he saw a knot of people coming—not thieves, for the Guild would not waste so many to rob one minor merchant. As they neared, he recognized uniforms he had seen in the Dragon’s common room. The thief couple had seen them, too, and were snarling at each other in thieves’ cant, as understandable to Arvid as the clearest court speech.
“Simyits take the luck, soldiers! Get that sack, at least, as we pass. Show blade; he’ll look at you; I’ll get him behind.”
“Cherin?”
“Leave the bitch; they’ll catch us.”
They both ran toward him; Arvid already had his sword out and put his back to the nearest wall as they closed in. This close, he could tell that the “woman” was a man in disguise; both had knives. Arvid flipped the sack around his left arm so the pots were on the outside.
“Thief!” he yelled at the advancing soldiers. “Help!” Shutters across the street banged open, and a man thrust his head out.
“HO!” he yelled, then ducked back inside.
The two men turned and ran up the street, the “woman” holding her skirts well up to reveal a pair of lean, muscled legs; the girl on the ground lay still. Arvid lowered his sword as the soldiers came up.
“Thank you,” he said to them. Three stopped; the rest ran on after the thieves. Across the street a door opened; the man he’d seen in the window came out, armed with a club.
“Need help?” he asked.
“Not now,” Arvid said. “But thank you. I would have been hard set against three—even two—”
“What’ve you got in the sack?” asked one of the soldiers. “Sounded like a rock when it hit that one’s head.” He nodded to the motionless figure in the snow.
“Two stone jars of mead,” Arvid said. “I told the host at the Dragon I’d pick some up if I found any in the market.”
“Ah—I’ve seen you at the Dragon,” said another soldier.
“Yes, I’m staying there. My name is Ser Burin. Came south looking for trade and didn’t realize how soon the pass would close.”
“Fools some every year,” the first soldier said.
“Could I beg the favor of an escort to the Dragon?” Arvid said. “And will you do me the honor of taking one of these jugs of mead?”
“Dragon won’t let us bring in our own drink, ser,” the soldier said.
“Then I will gladly buy a round for you all when I’ve handed it over to the host,” Arvid said.
The pursuing soldiers straggled back now. “No luck. They got up a wall and over.”
“Ser Burin here’s offered to buy us a round at the Dragon,” the soldier said. They all grinned at him.
They retraced their steps to the side lane that led to the inn, where the host greeted Arvid familiarly and took the two jugs of mead.
“I’m buying a round for these—” Arvid counted. “—these nine; I must leave the rest of my purchases in my room.”
“Very well, Ser Burin,” the host said. “And will you be eating in tonight? There’s your favorite.”
“Yes,” Arvid said. “It’s snowing again.”
In the room, Dattur watched with interest as Arvid unloaded his cloak pockets and then his tunic. “Why did you put them there?”
“Look.” Arvid held out one of the shallow pans, pointing to the mark on its bottom. “That was intended to go in just under the ribs.” He stacked the pans and plates for the Phelani on his bed, handed Dattur the lump of beeswax and a cone of heavy thread he’d asked for, and piled the rest of his purchases at the foot of his bed. “I’m buying ale for the soldiers whose timely appearance kept me from enjoying a bit of swordplay. There would be three dead thieves instead of just one if they hadn’t shown up, but as they did, I drew steel only long enough for them to catch up.” He told the story briefly.
“You could be killed.”
“I know,” Arvid said with a grimace. “But I was not taken unaware.” He took off his sword belt and hung it on a peg. “I must go—I’m having supper in the common room. Shall I have something sent to you?”
“No need. I ate before I came back.”
Back in the common room, the soldiers lifted their mugs to him; one of the maids showed him to his favorite table. He hoped to see Harnik again, but the man did not appear, nor did the freckle-faced man who had been at the next table. While he was eating, one of the Phelani captains came in with four of the soldiers. One of them was the scar-faced man. Arvid placed a small bet with himself that they had come to talk to him and counted it won when the captain, having scanned the room, nodded to his men and came directly to his table.
“May I, Ser Burin? Captain Selfer.”
“Certainly, Captain,” Arvid said. “I was able to find the pots and pans you asked for; they’re in my room. Is there some urgency?”
“Not about those. Harnik’s body was found today under the Drunkard’s Bridge. Did you know?”
“No,” Arvid said. “I’ve been out much of the day—I heard no gossip of it.”
“Did you see him last night or this morning?”
“No to both. Last night I dined early; the common room was quiet, and I talked to the host to see if he had errands around town I might do for him, since I was shopping for you already. As he did; hence the mead I brought back and a few other things. I went early to bed. But it wouldn’t surprise me if Harnik was drunk again; he was drunk the night before.”
“I will be asking the host when he left and with whom. It was clearly murder, not accident, from the marks on the body.”
“How so?” Arvid asked.
“Cuts and burns,” Selfer said. “Very deliberate. Clart Company has very generously offered to split the funeral costs with us.”
“A bad business,” Arvid said. “That might explain my adventures today.” He saw Tilin bringing a tray; she winked at him. “A moment—they’re bringing my supper. Will you join me?”
“No, I should get back.”
“Please. A short time only.”
“Very well.” Selfer turned slightly in his chair and caught the eye of one of his soldiers; the man came over at once. “I’ll be sitting with Ser Burin for a while,” he told the man. “Anything he should watch for?” he said to Arvid.
“Freckle-faced man, was wearing blue the last time I saw him,” Arvid said. “Not a soldier; looks like a laborer.”
Tilin arrived and began off-loading dishes to the table. “And for you, Captain?”
“A pot of sib and a couple of those cheese rolls,” Selfer said. “And a dozen for my troops.” The servant nodded and left with the tray.
Arvid unrolled the napkin and laid out the eating utensils in it, then arranged his side of the table carefully. “It serves my image as a slightly fussy merchant,” he said. “And it lets my hot-pot cool just enough … and here is your sib, Captain, and your cheese rolls.”
Selfer paid for his food, and Tilin left them alone. Arvid broke the pastry crust of the hot-pot, sniffed appreciatively, and then poured himself a glass of wine.
“That’s Andressat wine,” Selfer said.
“So the host told me, with some pride. It is a region? Or an estate?”
“A region,” Selfer said. “Governed by the Count of Andressat, a famously fussy old man who has great scorn for the north—of course he’s probably never been out of his own land.”
Arvid looked at Selfer, a spoonful of vegetables and gravy halfway to his mouth. “Indeed,” he said.
“There have been rumors that he traveled earlier this year, but I assure you … those were not … true.” Selfer’s lips twitched.
“I see,” Arvid said. “Well, I have heard no rumors and know nothing but the name the host told me.”
“So,” Selfer said, breaking open a cheese roll and spooning jam onto it. “Tell me about your adventure, if you will.”
Arvid gave a full account, from morning through afternoon. “They changed teams,” h
e said. “When I returned the boy to the cobbler’s place, I took the precaution of disposing of your pots and pans where they would do the most good before I went back out into the snow.”
“You expected an attack?”
“I thought then it was my being a solitary, someone with money enough to buy goods—some of them modestly valuable, and all could be resold. But after what you tell me of Harnik’s death, I think it may be that I talked to Harnik and then to you.”
“But could you not have hired an escort? One against three—that’s not good odds.”
Arvid took a sip of wine and smiled. “I had taken their measure early. These were not the best in the city. I was even looking forward to it.” He ate another two bites of hot-pot, then told Selfer how the game had played out. “I had only to hold them off until the troops came up, trusting my unconventional armor to protect me in back.” He took another sip of wine. “Merchants often carry swords but are not expected to be expert with them.”
“And you are,” Selfer said, brows raised. Not quite a question.
“I killed that former soldier of your Company who would have killed Paksenarrion,” Arvid said softly, breaking the rest of the pastry crust into the hot-pot. “Did you ever see that black-haired woman use a sword, Captain?”
Selfer blinked. “Yes.” He poured himself a mug of sib. “Yes, I did.”
“Then you know how good I am,” Arvid said.
“Valdaire has become dangerous for us,” Selfer said. “More dangerous for the Company, I mean.”
“Yes. But you must be here, because your winter quarters are here, and I choose to be here, in this inn where I am known to be respectable. If Harnik was killed, as I surmise, because of what he blabbed the other night in his cups, then it must have to do with what he mentioned, that story of the hole in the mountain.”
“And possibly that item.”
“And possibly that item, yes. You were wise, Captain, to bring an escort.”
“None of my people will be wandering Valdaire alone,” Selfer said. He downed half the mug of sib at one swallow.
Echoes of Betrayal Page 20