Echoes of Betrayal (24 page)

“Captain Burek, where is Captain Harnik?” Selfer asked.

“In his quarters,” Burek said. “He said it was snowing too hard to take the troops out.”

“And yet he had the duty to supervise today’s exercises, did he not?”

“Yes, sir.” Selfer knew that; it must be for the benefit of these witnesses.

“Was he drunk?”

Burek hesitated. “He—he looked flushed and smelled of drink when I knocked on his door to tell him the troops were assembled.”

“What did he do after he said it was too snowy?”

“Shut the door in my face,” Burek said.

“You mentioned something to me earlier today about insubordination,” Selfer said. “Please tell us about it.”

“I don’t remember his exact words,” Burek said. “It was when he came in last night—he said he’d thought of staying the night in the inn but felt we were too young to be left in charge without an older man—him—here.”

“I see.” Selfer went to the door and spoke to the soldier posted there. “Go tell Captain Harnik to come to the office at once.” Then, to Burek, “I’m sorry—you’ve been up all night and done his duty this morning as well, but what I learned in the city was too serious—it took time.”

Burek was far too curious now to feel sleepy. “I’m fine, Captain,” he said. He looked at the others while they waited for Harnik to appear. M’dierra, his former commander, gave him a brief approving nod. Nasimir Clart he knew by sight but had never spoken to; the wiry dark-haired man with a neat pointed beard looked him up and down and then transferred his gaze to Selfer. Gaster Teraloga from the hiring hall gave him a brief smile then looked away. The Marshal stared at the wall. Why had Selfer brought them?

They heard the soldier knock—once, then again, and again—and then a furious blurred voice yelling. Selfer took a step toward the door.

“Best not,” M’dierra said. “One of your sergeants, maybe?”

“I’ll just see,” Burek said. Selfer’s senior sergeant, Pedar Mattisson, attracted by the noise, was already coming; Burek signaled him and explained. Mattisson nodded.

Moments later he returned. “Captain, if I could have a word.”

“It’s not a secret, Sergeant. What’s his condition?”

“Drunk and incapable, Captain,” Mattisson said. “Roused enough to yell at the sentry, but when I went in, he was sprawled on his bed and there was an empty jug on the floor beside him. We can carry him in here if you want.”

“No,” Selfer said. “These witnesses must see him in his present condition.”

They all went to Harnik’s room; Harnik lay sprawled on his bed, a jug on the floor beside it, and did not respond to voice or shaking.

“Did you see a jug with him last night?” Selfer asked Burek.

“No, Captain,” Burek said. “He could have hidden it under his cloak, though. It was cold and snowing; we exchanged only a few words, and then he went into this room. I went back out as I had the watch.”

“Drunk, incapable, and insubordinate,” Nasimir Clart said. “And no surprise. And he told you he’d retired, Captain Selfer?”

“Yes. Said he’d left Clart Company to join his brother on a farm or something like that, and then the brother died …”

“And I was away, so you could not check what he said with me,” Clart said. “I say here, before witnesses, that this man was discharged from Clart Company for drunkenness and suspicion of theft.”

“Why did you not bring him to court?” asked Marshal Steralt.

“He had fought well enough in Siniava’s War,” Clart said. “He promised to go home to his family, and I saw no need to shame him.” At the Marshal’s sharp look, Clart shook his head. “I’m not Girdish, Marshal, as you know, nor yet a gnome to worship the law. That war changed many men.” He turned to Selfer. “But if I had known, Captain Selfer, that he presented himself as he did, I would have told you even if you had not come to me. I hope you believe that.”

“Certainly,” Selfer said. “I know Duke Phelan and Lord Arcolin always considered Clart Company honorable. I wish Lord Arcolin were here—”

“No need,” Marshal Steralt said. “There’s no doubt you have his
authority to act in his place, and there’s no doubt this man lied when you hired him, exceeded his authority in purchasing fodder without permission, showed lack of respect for you and Captain Burek, and is now drunk when he should be on duty. His former commander speaks against him. It only remains to wake him up and finish this.”

Burek had never considered what it might take to discharge an officer from command, but one of the books in the Company offices laid out the specifications and procedures. Harnik, finally roused with a bucket of snow dumped on his face, had been half carried to the office where Marshal Steralt sat as judicar; Harnik paled when he saw Nasimir Clart. Burek and Selfer each gave his evidence again, as did Guildmaster Teraloga from the hiring hall and Clart.

Harnik first blustered, attacking Selfer for his youth and inexperience and suggesting—as Selfer had said he feared—that Selfer had no right to command. Then, confronted with his own lies and his obvious drunkenness, he wept, pleading for mercy.

“It is mercy Captain Selfer does not have you whipped in front of the troops,” M’dierra said.

When it was done and Harnik back in civilian clothes, out the gate into the swirling snow, banned from the mercenaries’ hiring hall, Clart said, “You have offered no blame, Captain Selfer, but I feel some responsibility. I have a young officer I could lend you until you find someone qualified—no cost to you but his board. He won’t give you trouble, I’ll stand for that.”

“And I have a nephew who came this past autumn,” Aesil M’dierra said. “It would be good for him to be under another’s command for a time. He’s eager to show himself capable.”

“I thank you,” Selfer said. “That would be a help.” When the others had left, he turned to Burek. “You’re just what I needed, Burek. One last thing: we should both tell the sergeants before the rumors get any wilder and make it clear we stand together. Then you’re to bed, if you’ll take my order.”

“Willingly,” Burek said, yawning.

A
rvid had not planned to stay in the same lodging too long, but the snows that now came to Valdaire every day or so made the comfort of his inn too appealing. He knew everyone’s name from Jostin Psedann, the innkeeper, all the way down to Pidi, the boot-boy. Jostin greeted him cheerfully each day—it was all due to Arvid’s continued signs of prosperity, he knew, but still welcome. When a ground-floor room became available where Dattur could put his feet on stone, Jostin offered it to him first.

Dattur continued to act as Arvid’s servant, keeping their room spotless, mending and polishing anything he could find to mend and polish. In addition, he went out on his own, finding a rockfolk tailor for whom he could do contract work.

Arvid himself had a keen eye for value and soon learned which of the city’s markets and shops offered the best possibilities for small-scale trading … and the most gossip that he hoped would eventually lead to the necklace. His story—that he was a northern merchant who had not realized how early the pass over the mountains closed—brought nods and chuckles. Stranded northern merchants were nothing new. He and Dattur together made almost enough to cover their expenses, so he was sure the gold he’d taken from their abductors would last until spring.

They were still careful not to be seen much together; Dattur usually ate in their room or in one of the cookshops near the tailor’s
where he worked. Gnomes were uncommon in Valdaire but not rare enough to excite comment, and a gnome working in a dwarf’s shop would likely be taken for a young dwarf, not a gnome at all. Arvid ate in the inn’s common room at least once a day, sitting alone. They left the inn and returned to it separately and never walked together in the streets.

At some point, Arvid knew, the Thieves’ Guild would find out that their journeymen had disappeared, but the amount of gold sent with them suggested that a long absence would not trigger suspicion. The longer they weren’t recognized, the more likely they would not be. A slightly thickset merchant in a green-and-brown-plaid hooded cloak stumping about on foot should not call up memories of the lean, black-clad, black-hatted man on horseback with pointed beard and mustache and a gnome companion at his side.

He still could not think of any way to take his revenge on the local Thieves’ Guild, secure the Marshal-General’s letter, find and obtain the necklace, and make his way back to Vérella.

On this snowy afternoon, Arvid came back to the inn before his usual time and, after taking a meal to Dattur in their room, settled into what was now his favorite table—against the wall, small, perfect for one person—with a pot of sib and a mug of soup to warm him while he waited for his supper.

The tables filled quickly; he was congratulating himself on his decision to come in early when the door opened again and a red-faced man he knew he’d seen before stumbled in. For a moment, he could not place him … but then remembered the man had been in Fox Company uniform with a captain’s knot on his shoulder. Now he was wearing civilian clothes and had a pack slung on one shoulder. Interesting.

The man demanded a room in the blurred voice of someone a little drunk or very upset. Arvid carefully did not stare but managed to notice every detail of the man’s appearance. He was not surprised that the innkeeper demanded prepayment for a room, or at the man’s attempt to bluster and use his position with “Fox Company up the hill there” to avoid payment, or that it didn’t work. The innkeeper was firm: he wasn’t in uniform and thus could not use his position as surety.

“But you saw me in here yesterday.”

“So I did, and you were in uniform. And you still owe me for that jug.”

“Damn you!” The man fumbled a coin out of his pouch and slapped it on the counter. “There’s your jug and deposit on a room, too.”

The innkeeper, lips tight, took the coin and led the man upstairs. Jostin was, Arvid thought, more patient than he himself would have been—but then, he made his living by accepting paying guests, not turning them away. He listened. By the sound of it, Jostin had led him to one of the rooms directly above. Arvid lingered over his supper—a generous helping of roast goose with vegetables and a bowl of steamed, spiced grain—and wondered if the man would come down to eat. He did, finally, looking over the now-crowded room where Arvid had the only single table. He pointed; Grala, Arvid’s favorite serving maid, shook her head but finally made a “wait” gesture to him and came to the table.

“Sir, that man wishes a seat, and this is the only table with room. He could wait until you finish—”

“I am nearly finished,” Arvid said. “It will not bother me to share, and you are full tonight.”

“Thank you,” she said, and beckoned to the man to come.

Close up, the flush was clearly from drink rather than cold, and the man immediately demanded a jug of ale.

“The water here is foul,” the man said. “I’m Harnik, retired cavalry officer. You?”

“Ser Burin,” Arvid said, giving the name he had chosen for his merchant persona. “Merchant, as you see.”

“Traveling?”

“At times. Not in winter,” Arvid said.

“Well, if you’re looking for an experienced guard-captain for your caravan next season, I’m for hire.”

“I thought you said you’d retired.”

“From the cavalry. Old wound. Fit enough to do caravan work.” The ale came; the man drank half a mug at one swallow. “Or if you need personal protection … never a bad idea with the city full of soldiers and those who prey on them. You merchants—always have gold in your sleeves—need somebody with blade skills to keep off the riffraff.”

Desperate for work, then. Arvid could add up scores as well as anyone and was sure the man had just been cashiered, probably for being a drunk.

“Not at the moment, thank you,” he said, as meekly as he thought a merchant should, and applied himself to his dessert, spiced apples baked in custard. His earlier hatred for the south was weakening under the influence of southern cooking.

Harnik took another swallow of ale, hooked one arm over the back of his chair, and glanced around the room. Arvid had already noticed that no Phelani uniforms were in the room. Harnik leaned forward. “Wouldn’t advise you to deal with Fox Company,” he said.

Arvid raised his brows but said nothing.

“Couple of young fools up there, making a mess of things. No respect for experience. It’ll all come to grief, you mark my words.”

A different servant appeared with a platter of bread and cheese, which Arvid recognized as the cheapest choice for supper. Harnik took a bite of cheese. Arvid scraped out the last bits of custard in his bowl. As if someone had touched him with a fork, he was suddenly aware of interest somewhere in the room. He’d never seen that other man again, the one who had tried to keep his face hidden. He leaned back, sighing with obvious satisfaction, and twisted his head from side to side as if he had a cramp in his neck. There. Heart-hand, table for four—the man facing them looked down just too quickly. Round-faced, blue-eyed, freckled, gray roughspun shirt, brown vest, hands Arvid classified as “outdoor work.” Arvid looked down at his bowl and licked his lips, as if thinking of ordering another.