Kings of the North (25 page)

“How many of the beardless dwarves we see are ktet-ketick-whatevers?”

“Most to all,” Arvid said. “Didn’t you know that?”

“No, I did not,” Marshal Perin said. “We did not.”

“It’s true,” Arvid said. “Young dwarves do not go out into the world until they have beards, and they grow beards early. Only very rarely will you see a true dwarf lad out with his father, and never in a large city. They’re very protective, dwarves.”

A groom came to take Arvid’s horse. He followed into the stable to see where it was stalled.

“You will be sleeping in the School dormitories,” Marshal Perin said. “You will have your own room, of course. But please do not mingle with the students. They are apt to fall on any guest or traveler and ask questions when they should be studying.”

“School?” Arvid said.

“We’re the training facility for the Knights of Gird, also paladins—
though they’re housed separately—and we also have a junior school where Girdish … I suppose I must say nobles, mostly from Tsaia … send boys for whom they cannot find acceptable fosterage. Wealthier Finthans, as well. Most end up as Knights of Gird or Knights of the Bells.”

“Only boys?”

“For the younger ones, yes. For knights’ training and paladin candidates, we have both—as you must know, because of Paksenarrion.” Marshal Perin paused in the great forecourt. “Would you like to see the High Lord’s Hall?”

A little chill ran down Arvid’s back. “Perhaps another time,” he said. “It is late—”

The Marshal’s mouth quirked. “Not that late. Admittedly, the windows are more beautiful in the morning, with sunlight coming in the round one, but … I’m sorry to be blunt, but you must know that we know who you are. We honor you for saving our paladin, but … a thief—”

“I’m not a thief,” Arvid said. “Not all in the Thieves’ Guild are thieves.”

Marshal Perin smiled and nodded. “I understand. But still, you consort with thieves. Fortunate for Paksenarrion that you do, for then you were able to help her.”

Arvid shivered again. The memory of that time would not release him; he still saw her wounds heal, heard the gasps of the crowd, smelled the rank fear, felt the buffeting of those fleeing the scene. He had come prepared to ensure honorable burial for her … and she was not dead. The other one, he had killed quickly, efficiently, with the poisoned daggers he always carried.

Then Paksenarrion had wakened … alive, not crippled, and in behavior the same as she had been a few years before, when he had enjoyed playing the sophisticate with the naive soldier-girl. And said … that Gird might want to save the Thieves’ Guild. Ridiculous. He had not told
that
to the Marshal who first interviewed him about Paks. He wasn’t sure he’d ever tell anyone.

“I was glad to help her,” he said.

When they entered the School courtyard, cloaked in the blue shadows of summer dusk, Arvid glanced around, automatically noting
ways in and out. Windows, drainpipes, gates … it would be easy, should he need to. His skin tightened. His room, one of five kept for guests on the ground floor, was small but clean and furnished with sufficient to his needs: bed, chair, table.

“The rockbrothers will try to steal the necklace tonight or tomorrow night,” he said suddenly.

Marshal Perin stared. “Necklace?”

“The one I gave Paks in Brewersbridge. They know it’s here—well, everyone with wit in Tsaia knows that.”

“But surely—”

“Guard it well this night, Marshal, wherever it is. Such a thing might redeem the
kteknik
’s place with his prince, or a dwarf’s with his king.”

“They said this?”

“They were talking of the necklace when I joined them, and said it plain out. I speak their language, you see.”

“If they are caught, they will know you betrayed them,” Marshal Perin said. “Dwarves, at least, do not take kindly to betrayal.”

“I gave warning,” Arvid said. “I told them I hoped not to see them before sunrise—and they know who I am. I do not know if it will stop them. This is a pleasant room for guesting in, but it is more likely to deter such thieves if they see me with drawn blade here and there about the place. Let them think a thief—as you think, and they also—was set as guard.”

“You … want me—us—to show you where the treasury is, and trust
you
to ward it?”

Arvid shrugged. “It is up to you, of course. I quite understand your reluctance and would not suggest, in any event, that I be the only guard. Merely that I am the one most likely to spot gaps in your protection large enough for one small gnome to wriggle through.”

“You have no desire for the thing yourself?” The Marshal’s gaze was keen; Arvid met it squarely, having no fear that his face would reveal anything of his thoughts.

“I had none, when I left Vérella,” he said. “I am not a poor man; what I need, I have. And yet I admit that as I came closer to Fin Panir, I felt … something. From what I have heard—and you may have as well—the crown and other regalia have some ancient magery to them,
and draw or repel persons without their will. If this necklace does belong with the rest—if it is part of that—perhaps it seeks to join the others, or they seek to call it.”

“Magery!” The Marshal’s face tightened to a grimace of disgust. “Do you mean the old—the magelords’ magery?”

“Yes,” Arvid said. He had opened his pack in full sight of the Marshal, unrolling his spare clothes and laying them neatly on the shelf, along with his own cup, plate, bowl, and eating utensils. He shook the pack, demonstrating its spurious emptiness, and hung it on a peg. “Surely you heard about the coronation—that the new Duke Verrakai killed a Verrakaien who had taken disguise as a groom, and thus saved the king’s life. So he pardoned her for her use of magery in doing so.”

“We heard that, but did not credit it,” Marshal Perin said. “The Marshal-General was there; she would not countenance such a breach of the Code of Gird. Killing by magery is an offense for which the only sentence is death.”

“The king rules in Tsaia. And you can hardly blame the Tsaians for thinking a live king, new-crowned, is worth the exchange. His younger brother is but a child, and not like to become the man the king is, so I hear.”

Marshal Perin shook his head. “It is wrong, and nothing can make it right. That’s what Gird’s war was about: clear right and wrong, no excuses.”

This was exactly why the Girdish had always seemed so naive and even stupid to Arvid: their insistence that everything was simple at root. Their paladins used what amounted to magery, but no doubt they’d say it was the gods’ favor. How did they know the magelords had not had some god’s favor? But this night he had a reason to convince this Marshal that he should be allowed to guard the treasure. What approach would work?

“It would be wrong to let it be stolen,” Arvid murmured.

The Marshal turned sharply. “You seriously think the necklace is in danger—you do not trust that we have secure locks?”

“I trust that in a center of Girdish learning, surrounded by those who follow the Code of Gird, you have little experience with really skilled thieves or—since you forbid magery—with the way enchanted objects can sway minds. I know that two determined rockfolk—and
rockfolk will know things about this place you do not—expect to make away with it.”

The Marshal shook his head. “Impossible. The buildings here are on bedrock.”

“Rockfolk,” Arvid murmured.

Silence. Then, “Oh,” said the Marshal. “You mean they could—”

“Tunnel through it? Certainly.”

“But how would they know where to tunnel?”

“It is said that the rockfolk can perceive the jewels they desire through a league of solid rock—that is how they find them. I do not know if that is entirely true, or what sense they use, but we had a dwarf in the Guild at one time who proved uncannily accurate in a test of that ability. We drilled a hole to the center of each of three blocks of stone, and put a single jewel in one, then asked him to name the stone holding the jewel. He did so. The safest place for your treasure, Marshal Perin, is aboveground, in a room large enough for multiple guards, all of them known to you.”

“Which excludes you,” Marshal Perin said, “since you are not known to me.”

“If the others are your fellow Girdsmen, they will not let me steal.”

“I will ask,” Marshal Perin said. “But I do not know if they will follow your advice or wishes. Will you wait here or come with me?”

“I will wait,” Arvid said, for that, he thought, would ease the Marshal’s mind a bit. “Leave the door open, if you will, for the breeze.” The first cool breath of air had come through the window into the stuffy little room. Marshal Perin nodded and left. Arvid took his pack off the peg and removed from it those items he might need in the night, then hung it again. He checked his blades, one by one, and when satisfied lay down on the narrow bed and waited. It was not long before someone paused at the door and looked in: a bright-eyed youngster in the gray tunic and trousers of a student.

“Are you a visitor?” the boy asked, then flushed as if he’d realized it was a stupid question.

“Yes,” Arvid said. “But I’m not supposed to talk to students.”

“Why not?” Now the boy leaned on the door frame. “Have you done something bad?”

Arvid made a show of thinking about that. “Not lately,” he said finally. “Have you?”

“Not really bad. I did say a bad word when I hit myself with a hauk—see, here’s the bruise—” He pushed up his sleeve to show a bruise on his upper arm. “—and I didn’t think Marshal Gerrit would know it was a bad word because it’s dwarvfish—my brother taught it to me—but he did.”

“What was it?” Arvid asked.

“Char-chardnik,”
the boy said. “All the words ending in
-nik
are dwarvfish, Olin said.”

Arvid struggled with laughter and choked it back. “Sorry, Olin’s wrong. Do you even know what
chardnik
means?”

“Horse droppings?”

“Er … no. It’s not a dwarvish word; lots of words that aren’t dwarvish end in
-nik
, and it means something your father would whip you for saying.”

“But—but
what
?” From the boy’s gleeful expression, Arvid knew he was imagining what he’d say to his older brother.

“Something vile,” Arvid said. “And aren’t you supposed to be studying something?”

“Writing pages of ‘I will not use foul language’ over and over, but I brib—got Tamis to do it for me.”

A boy with talents. Arvid smiled at him. “I would not have either of us in trouble for this conversation—the Marshal who bade me not interfere with your studies might come back any time.”

“Do you have to stay here?” the boy asked, with a glance up and down the corridor.

“I said I would,” Arvid said. “And I expect Marshal Perin to return.”

“From?”

“Over there,” Arvid said, gesturing out the window.

“Then I can see him and he will not see me if I’m not right in the doorway.” The boy came into the room without waiting for an invitation and flattened himself against the wall, where he could see out the window. “I’m Baris, by the way, Baris Arnufson.”

“And I am Arvid Semminson,” Arvid said, sitting up on the bed.

The boy went pale. “Oh—oh, you’re the one—in the—the—you know. And you saved
her
! We heard about you!”

Arvid kept his jaw from dropping by main force. He had not expected that a boy in Fin Panir would recognize his full name, and if
the whole school did, no wonder Marshal Perin told him not to chat with the students. “Um … if you mean Paks—”

“Of course! Paksenarrion, the greatest paladin ever! My brother was here when she was; he saw her. He
talked
to her.”

“You might want to lower your voice,” Arvid said. “You can be heard even if you aren’t seen.”

The boy spoke more softly but with the same intensity. “She was just a student when she came—just going for knight’s training, he said. He had a room on the same corridor … There was this other boy, who almost challenged her when he thought she was just a peasant girl, but she wasn’t, she’d been a soldier. In the south. With Duke Phelan, only now he’s king of Lyonya and she’s why, that’s what they said.”

“True,” Arvid said. Nothing was going to stop the whole recital, everything this boy knew about Paks, he could tell. “Don’t forget to watch out the window.”

“I won’t. And then—” He rattled off the tale as told by students in the training college; Arvid corrected nothing. “And why are you here?” the boy asked when he’d done.

“To tell the Archivist what I know about Paksenarrion, for your records,” Arvid said. “At the Marshal-General’s request.”

“Tell me,” the boy said. “Please, please …”

“I cannot, at least not until I have told the Archivist, so the tale will not have details worn off by retelling.”

The boy scowled. “Well … a promise to the Marshal-General. I suppose you mustn’t, then, but after … afterward, please come and tell me … us …”

“If the Marshal-General permits. See here, Baris, I am not your tutor; I have no right to interfere.”

“But you’re in the—” The boy’s voice dropped even lower, to a murmur. “—Thieves’ Guild.” Louder, again. “Why do you care about the rules?”

“We have rules, even in the Guild,” Arvid said. “Just different ones.” He caught the faint sound of a door closing across the courtyard. “You had better go now, Baris, and if you wish to know what that word means from my lips, I trust you will not chatter about meeting me, more than a glance in the room and being sent away.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t,” the boy said, moving to the doorway. “This is too good a secret.”

Arvid lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, listening to the boot-heels and voices in the paved yard outside—Marshal Perin and another Marshal had met and paused to talk—and wondering if any boy that age could keep a secret even one turn of the glass. He had, he recalled, but he had been brought up to it. Still, it was comforting to know that Girdish boys were normal: mischievous and wily. He might find something other than stuffy sanctimoniousness here.

He opened his eyes when Marshal Perin knocked on the door frame.

“You must come to the High Lord’s Hall and swear before witnesses you have no intent to steal the necklace and that you believe it is in danger,” he said. “And I warn you, you are not likely to fool us or the gods in the Hall.”