Divided Allegiance

15

Sir Felis met the party coming into town. Ambros was with him, as were several other yeomen. Some of the townspeople cheered; Paks felt her face redden. She was glad she had the black horse; at least she didn’t have to look up at Sir Felis.

“You’ve done well,” he said, after a quick look at the group. “None of your men killed—or even badly hurt—”

“My arm—” began the merchant. Sir Felis gave Paks a quick look of amusement, soldier to soldier, before speaking to the man.

“I’m sorry, sir; I didn’t see. The surgeon has been alerted; he’s at the inn.”

“Good. It was a terrible fight—”

Paks saw one of Sir Felis’s men roll his eyes. She choked down a laugh. Her knees felt shaky. In the stir around them, the black horse began to fidget. She met Ambros’s gaze.

“How was it?” he asked.

“Went well.” She worked the black horse over to the side of the road near him. “They all came out the bolthole, just as we thought. Your yeomen are good fighters—steady.”

Ambros smiled. “I know. The Marshal’s trained them well. I’m glad they were willing to go with you.”

“What now?”

“Well—Sir Felis will take them to the keep. I suppose he’ll ask you along. The Council’s heard; of course they’re happy about it. Do you think you got them all?”

“Twenty-one came out; we left eleven dead and have ten prisoners. Unless some stayed in the keep—and I wouldn’t have, with what Zinthys did.” Mindful of spies, Paks did not elaborate on that.

“They don’t—they don’t look so bad,” said Ambros thoughtfully.

“Who, the brigands?”

“Yes. I thought—”

Paks glanced at him. “They’d all look like orcs?”

He flushed. “I know I don’t have your experience—”

“Don’t be silly. I didn’t mean that.” Paks found herself annoyed with his sensitivity. “I was surprised myself, if you want to know. The only brigands I’d seen, in Aarenis, looked as vicious as they were. These men look like any poor farmer or soldier. The leader—that one in the litter there—he said something about not wanting to be a robber—”

“Eh, once he’s caught, what’d you expect him to say?” The uninjured merchant had pressed close to Paks’s side. “He’s not likely to admit he’s been a thief from birth.”

“He hasn’t been,” said Arvid, with a certainty that made Paks wonder.

“How do you know?”

“Lady, I, like Master Zinthys, prefer not to reveal all the sources of my knowledge. But I will tell you that had he been a thief from birth, he would not have been in that keep.”

“But how do you know?” Both Paks and Ambros stared at Arvid. He smiled, bowed, and passed on toward the inn.

“That one,” muttered the merchant, idly putting his hand on the black horse’s neck. It jerked aside; by the time Paks had it calm again, the merchant and most of the group had passed. Sir Felis beckoned; Paks moved the black horse beside his at the tail of the procession.

“Come on out with me to the keep, will you?” he asked. “I’d like to hear what happened. My cook should have something ready, too.”

Paks nodded. She realized that Sir Felis might want her to be present when he questioned the prisoners. She wondered what the customs were.

“And you too, yeoman marshal, if your duties permit,” said Sir Felis smoothly. “Since the Marshal is not here, I would like a representative from the grange to be present.”

“The grange’s honor, Sir Felis,” said Ambros. “May I ask how long this might take? It is customary for the yeomen of Gird to give thanks in the grange for the success of such a mission; I would like to tell them when—”

Sir Felis pursed his lips. “I am not certain, yeoman-marshal, but surely by dark. These men do not look so desperate as I thought.”

Paks had feared that Sir Felis might, like Alured the Black of Aarenis, torture his prisoners; he did not need to. By the time Sir Felis, trailed by Paks and Ambros, came down the stairs to question them, the brigand leader had decided to tell what he knew.

“We was all honest men once, sir,” he said weakly. “I was a farmer, myself. Some of the others was trade or craft, but most was farmers. But that bad drought three years ago, in Verrakai lands—that’s what drove me out. The taxes—and then no grass, and the cows dying—so my lord Verrakai put me out, and I went wandering. No one had honest work, sir, and that’s the truth of it.” He closed his eyes a moment; Paks looked around at the other brigands. The wounded lay quietly; the rest squatted against the dungeon wall, heads down. “I suppose Elam and I were the first,” the man went on after a long pause. “He and I’d known each other back home—we traveled together. We come on this place in a storm—went in to get dry—and then—seems we couldn’t leave.”

“What stopped you?” asked Ambros.

“I don’t know. Something. It—it called, like. We stayed there a couple of days—shot a bird for food, Elam was a good bowman. I stuck one of those things in the moat, but we couldn’t eat that.”

“What thing?” asked Sir Felis.

“You know. One of them—big things, like a frog only near man-sized. Smell rotten. They have teeth, too. Anyway we stayed there. Took a goose from a farm nearby—I’d asked for work, and they drove us off. Called us robbers, they did, and we hadn’t robbed before that. Made me mad.” He stopped again, and rubbed his nose. “Elam wanted to go on somewheres else, but when we got an hour or so away, we both got the cramps bad. Had to come back. Then the others came.” He nodded toward the other men. “One or two at a time, every week or so. Soon we’d hunted out all the woods around. If we took from the farms—well, most of us had farmed. We didn’t want to.”

“So then he said take caravans,” put in one of the others, leaning back against the wall and tilting his head up to look at Sir Felis. “He says what’s a caravan to you—them merchants are all rich, and what has rich done for you? That’s what he says. Steal from caravans, and get rich yourself.” The man spat. “Rich! Heh! All we ever see’s enough to eat, and that not all the time. A few coppers now and then—a new cloak—that’s all.”

“You shouldn’t talk about him,” said the first robber, pushing himself up. “It’s bad luck. He’ll—”

“He can’t do much here,” said the other. “Teriam, think! It’s listening to him has got us here—in jail, when we were born honest men. Robbers, we are, and it’s him as profits by it.”

“But you know what he said. He can reach us anywheres—that’s why we couldn’t leave. He could touch us here—right now—and—”

“And what? Kill us deader than they will, when they’re through talking?” The man gave Sir Felis a bitter grin. “Tell you the truth, sir, if you can kill that devil, you’ll do yourself more good than killing us. And I’ll be glad of it.”

Paks saw that some of the other brigands seemed very frightened, but they said nothing. The leader had fallen back, and now lay silent with eyes closed and jaw clenched.

“Who is this man that ordered you to rob?” asked Sir Felis. “Was he captured or killed?”

“Not him,” said the spokesman angrily. “Not him. He’s got his own place, safe and deep, and all we know’s his orders. I don’t know his name, sir, or who or what he is—and I’m not sure he’s a man, even. Teriam knows, I think—” He glanced at the leader.

“I don’t.” It came out as a harsh whisper. “I swear I don’t know—I never seen him but the one time, and after that I couldn’t—I couldn’t—” He gripped his head, rocking back and forth. “He—he had black robes, that’s all, and some kind of—of thing on a chain—it—like a hand spread out, only it had too many fingers—”

Paks felt, rather than saw, Ambros stiffen beside her. “Gird’s arm!” he said softly. Then more loudly, “Like a spider, maybe?”

The man’s head turned towards him. “It—it might be—if—NO!” He began to flail about on the straw. “No! Don’t let him—not here—!”

Sir Felis swore, a soldier’s curse Paks had heard many times. She could see nothing but the frightened man, waving his hands at nothing and trying to flee something no one could see. Ambros moved forward before the others shook off their surprise, and caught his arm.

“Be still, man—Teriam’s your name? Be still; Gird will ward you from that evil.”

“No one can—he said he could—”

“Gird’s grace on you, Teriam. Gird Strongarm will ward you; give him a chance.”

“You-you’re a Marshal? Of Gird?”

“I’m the yeoman-marshal of this grange,” said Ambros. “I am sworn to Gird’s service, and known to him. I give you my word that I place your name before Gird.”

“Please—” The man’s eyes were open now, and fastened on Ambros. “Please, sir—I’m not afraid to die—just not that filth, please, sir—”

Ambros freed one hand and held out his medallion. Teriam touched it with the tips of his fingers. “You have been spelled by some evil, is that not so?” asked Ambros. “You fear that it will take your soul?”

Teriam nodded. “He said—he said he could do that. Wherever we tried to run, whatever we did—he would find us, and see us in—” He stopped, and lowered his voice. Paks could not hear what he said to Ambros, but she saw the sudden twitch of Ambros’s shoulders.

“Well, and do you believe that the High Lord and Gird are stronger than that one?”

“I—I know I should, sir, but I’m feared—I’m feared they won’t be for me—”

Ambros looked around at the other robbers. “And you? What do you think of the power of that evil one, when you are here? Do you think the High Lord is weaker?”

Some shook their heads; some simply stared. The man who had spoken so boldly before pushed himself to his feet. “Sir—yeoman-marshal—I was a yeoman of Gird once. Not a good one, you’ll say, and I won’t argue that. I never thought to find myself bound by such evil—just a drover like me. I don’t know what that black-cape can do, but I will say the High Lord is right, if he kills me for it.”

Ambros gave him a bleak smile. “Yeoman of Gird, you must face the Count’s judgment, but the High Lord knows his own servants.”

The man’s face lighted. “I swear, yeoman-marshal, that it was not fear of the Count’s court that kept me there. Whatever the grange-court demands—”

“Gird will have somewhat to say in that, yeoman.”

“Aye, yeoman-marshal.” He turned to Sir Felis. “Sir, if you will, if the court demands my life, permit the grange to report the death of a yeoman.”

Sir Felis looked at Ambros, brows raised. Ambros nodded.

“The Marshal would say the same, Sir Felis. A yeoman may be spelled into evil deeds; I judge it was so with him, and perhaps with some others. The punishment must fall, but their names remain on the grange rolls. Only those who willingly serve evil, and refuse to repent, are cast out.”

“He won’t tell you,” said Teriam softly, “but I will. He tried to get away more than once—we kept him until the curse softened him.”

“I pray the High Lord’s mercy on you, Teriam, for your deeds and your confessions.”

Back upstairs, in Sir Felis’s conference room, Ambros reddened under their gaze. Zinthys studiously ignored the others, setting wine to heat on the hearth. Sir Felis simply watched Ambros, his weathered face fixed in a neutral expression. Paks tried to see, behind that youth and inexperience, the power he had seemed to have with the prisoners.

“Well,” said Sir Felis suddenly, as if he’d made a decision. He looked at Paks. “I say again, Paksenarrion, that you did very well. Very well indeed. I am not now surprised that your Duke recommended you for advanced training. I do not think many novice commanders could have taken over a score with a dozen, and had no casualties.”

“I could not, without Master Zinthys’s help,” said Paks. “And your soldiers caught the stragglers.”

“Even so,” said Sir Felis. He looked her up and down. “And you, yourself, have no injury? I see your tunic is slashed.”

“No, sir,” said Paks. “I wear mail, of course.”

“Hmmph. Yes. Well, then, I think we’d better have a formal report to the Council—you know the sort of thing—I’ll speak to the mayor, and I expect we’ll meet tonight. You’ll be summoned. Yeoman-marshal—” Sir Felis turned to Ambros.

“Yes, Sir Felis?”

“Since some of the prisoners claim to be yeomen, I will delay trial until the Marshal returns.”

“Thank you, Sir Felis.”

“I will not promise that it will make any difference—”

“Of course not, Sir Felis. The grange understands that.”

“Good. I’ll see you later, then—will you be at Council in the Marshal’s place?”

“Yes, Sir Felis.”

“Good. Paksenarrion, do you wish to make your own reckoning of the arms recovered?”

“No, sir.” Paks saw no reason to distrust Sir Felis’s count.

“Then I’ll see you later. If you’ll excuse me—” He shrugged into his heavy cloak.

“Certainly, sir.” Paks and Ambros followed Sir Felis down the winding stairs and out to a sunny afternoon. A soldier brought their horses forward; Sir Felis had already mounted ridden off.

They were almost back to The Jolly Potboy when Ambros turned to Paks. “Can I have a talk with you?”

“Me?” Paks had been thinking about the report she would have to give to the Council; she dreaded it. “Of course—but what about?”

“Come on to the grange; I don’t want to talk about it here.”

Paks sighed. She had been up since long before dawn, and she had looked forward to a hot bath. She had not had time for more than a brief handwash before the simple lunch Sir Felis had served. But Ambros looked so concerned that she nodded finally and turned the black horse away from the inn.

“I should have thought—” Ambros said quietly, nodding to a child in the street. “You’re tired, aren’t you?”

“I’m dirty and stiff as much as tired. And don’t you still have to do whatever ceremony you were talking about?”

“Oh—yes. I’d forgotten, Gird forgive my thick head. Blast. But you’ll want to see that, even you aren’t Girdish. The Marshal would want you to be there.”

“All right.” Paks wished he’d get to the point. She saw Sir Felis’s horse and escort outside the Brewmaster’s gate as they passed.

Once at the grange, Ambros took charge quickly. “I’ll rub down the black, and put him up—with the Marshal away, we have plenty of space. You can wash up if you want—there’s plenty of water in the scullery—and if you need any bandages or anything—”

“No,” said Paks, abandoning the idea of a good soaking bath. “Just to get this dust off—” She took off her helmet and sluiced her head as Ambros led horses away. The cold water revived her; she wiped her neck with a wet cloth and had most of the grime off her hands and arms before Ambros returned.

“Now,” he said, leading the way into the grange proper. “I expect the other yeomen will be here soon—they saw us ride by. What I want to know is whether you’ll come with me when I go to seek that blackweb priest.”

“What?” Paks was completely confused.

“Didn’t you hear him? There’s a blackweb—a priest of Achrya—somewhere in that keep. I’ve got to go and—”

“Wait—Ambros, didn’t the Marshal tell you not to go after the brigands?”

“The brigands, yes. And I didn’t. This is different. A true evil, Paks—something like this—I can’t let it alone.”

“But Ambros, you’re not a Marshal. Can you fight such a thing? Wouldn’t it be better to wait for the Marshal to come back? He said to stay with the grange.”

Ambros shook his head. “What if he moves? Now we know where he is—the center of evil for this whole area—and it’s my responsibility.”

“What about your dream?”

“That’s just it.” Ambros looked sober but determined. “Paks, such a dream could be an evil sending—to keep me from doing what I should. If I don’t try—for fear of dying—what kind of Girdsman am I?”

“It could be a warning from Gird, couldn’t it?”

“Yes—but I can’t tell.”

“Then I think you should wait.” Paks stuck her hands in her sword belt. “Ambros, you don’t know anything about what’s there except what a robber said. How do you know he’s telling the truth? Even if he is, you don’t know enough. A priest of Achrya—very good so far. But alone? With other troops? Human or other?”

Ambros had been pacing back and forth; he stopped. “I—see. I hadn’t thought of that. It’s your experience, I suppose.”

“Not just that. I would go with you—but you said, the other day, that you had to obey the Marshal.”

“I have to obey Gird. Ordinarily that means the Marshal, but—” He stopped as the yeomen who had been with Paks that morning came into the grange. Paks noticed that none of them had changed from their bloodstained clothing; she wondered why. Mal winked at her, as they all came to the platform. Ambros climbed onto it.

What followed seemed strange to Paks. He called on each one to give an account for his own actions. After each recital, Ambros crossed his blade with the man’s weapon. When it came to Mal, the big man grinned as Ambros’s sword tapped his axe blade. Then Ambros inspected all the weapons, and supervised their return to the grange racks—for only Mal had carried his own. After that, they all repaired to the inn for a round of ale.

Here the others who had been involved joined them. Paks slipped upstairs for a bath and change of clothes. She put on her new clothes, enjoying the feel of good cloth. It was hard to believe that she’d been in a battle that morning—she thought back to the Duke’s Company, and laughed to herself. Very different indeed. No company chores, no guard duty at night. And the others had fought well. Perhaps she could get used to having strange companions at her side—or none. Even so, she slipped the mail shirt back on and pulled her best leather tunic over it.

She opened the door to find a girl leaning on the wall opposite. Paks recognized her as one of the junior yeomen. The girl stood away from the wall as Paks came out.

“Please—lady—could I speak to you?”

“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 robbers?”

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 anger. “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.