Echoes of Betrayal (28 page)

“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,” he 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.

“Nor will I,” Arvid said. “With your commission, I will say, I can afford a hiresword as escort—”

“If you will, Ser Burin, I can find you a reliable person, an experienced soldier.”

“That is very kind,” Arvid said.

“And now I must speak to the host—I do not know if he knows yet about Harnik.”

“And when you are finished with that,” Arvid said, “perhaps you would like your pots and pans?”

“Certainly.”

Arvid watched as the young captain spoke to the host. He could read Jostin’s reaction. No, none had come to tell him … the man was not worried, and that in itself was a mystery. He himself was worried, more worried than he wanted to show. If he had been targeted because he had talked to Harnik and the Phelani—because he had interfered
with the spy listening to the Phelani soldiers—his disguise of harmless merchant had frayed past usefulness, his careful nurturing of that image was effort and time wasted. The two thieves who’d escaped earlier … What were they telling the Guildmaster?

He finished the hot-pot and the plum-jam tart with cream for dessert. The soldiers who’d rescued him hadn’t stopped with the round he bought them; they occupied three tables nearest the bar and seemed to be interested only in dicing and ogling the serving girls. Selfer’s escort, one woman and three men, did not drink, though they chatted easily with the others.

Selfer came back to his table. “The host says Harnik left long before breakfast, taking his things from his room but leaving a tip. Took his horse from the stable; the stable night guard had him sign out. Said he had a journey to go.”

“A short one,” Arvid said. “Well, let’s get your purchases to you.” He stood and led the way to his room. He knocked on the door in case Dattur was taking his nightly bucket bath—gnomes bathed more often than anyone needed, he was sure—and Dattur opened the door. “Captain Selfer,” Arvid said. “He has come for the pots and things I bought for the Phelani.”

“Is good,” Dattur said. “You need talk?”

“Not much,” Arvid said. “Stay.”

Dattur sat cross-legged on his bed and picked up the work he’d been doing, sewing pockets into some garment, while Arvid showed Selfer the pans, including the mark on the one, and the receipts from the merchants who’d sold them. “These are said to be new—these two I bought used, because they seemed in good condition.”

“Fine,” Selfer said. “And you got them for less than my soldiers could. What’s your price?”

“What would you have paid?” Arvid asked. Selfer’s answer matched what he would have asked. Selfer paid over the coins, and Arvid put the pots in the sack he’d used for the jars of mead.

Selfer watched Dattur sewing for a long moment. “Does he ever make gloves?”

“Make gloves,” Dattur said. “Is that you want gloves?” He leaned over and pulled a sack from under his bed. “Make these gloves.” He spilled several pairs of gloves from the sack. “Already sold, these gloves. Take tomorrow.”

“May I?” Selfer asked, reaching toward the gloves. Dattur handed him one.

“Make good. Gnomes never make bad.”

“Would he—would you, pardon me—have time to make gloves for soldiers?”

Dattur looked at Arvid. “My lord?”

“As you wish, Dattur.”

“Must finish work paid and work promised. Then make gloves. Need hands.”

“Hands?”

“Measure. Not all hands same.” Dattur spread his own. “My glove my hand. Ser’s glove ser’s hand.”

Dattur, Arvid noticed, had a much thicker accent with Selfer than he now used with Arvid. Nonetheless, he and Selfer came to an agreement on the price of gloves if Dattur provided the leather or if the Company did.

After Selfer left, Arvid talked to the innkeeper.

“You’re right,” Jostin said. “If they think you know what Harnik knew—what they killed him for—they’ll be after you next.”

“Already, I think,” Arvid said, describing how he’d been shadowed and then attacked. “And it’s deep winter, and I don’t know where else to go. Yet I bring danger on your house by being here.”

“Not that much,” Jostin said. “And you’re friends with the Foxes. They will not let much go wrong here, though I notice they’re not coming down as much as they used to.”

Arvid forbore to explain that he was one of the reasons.

“You can stay here, for all of me,” the host said. “But you won’t be able to go about and trade, will you?”

“No … I do have payment—”

“I’m not worried about that,” Jostin said. “But how to explain that a man who’s been in and out for tens of days never shows his face?”

“And just when I was thinking the Fox Company commissions would give me a start on the coming year,” Arvid said.

“I don’t like the feel of the city this past year,” Jostin said. “The mercenaries are all right—they’re rough folk, but mostly honest enough—the ones who come here, anyway. But there’s been more trouble, more blood, more nasty talk … You’ve heard about the counterfeiting, I suppose, being a merchant?”

“To beware of false coins, yes. I came down here thinking Guild League coinage was safer than northern—”