Echoes of Betrayal (27 page)

“How many?” Arvid asked. “And what size? New or used?”

Burek explained, and Arvid left shortly after.

“Did you really lose those pots?” Selfer asked.

“Yes,” Burek said. “Hadn’t thought of it until now. What do you think of him?”

“Arvid Semminson? Or Ser Burin? I’ll tell you something odd, Burek. He’s the one who got Paksenarrion out of the Thieves’ Guild warren … and Paks told Dorrin something about him. Thought he was gods-touched, she said. And that item—”

“Should you name it?” Burek asked.

“Possibly not, though this must be the safest place in Valdaire. But there’s trouble brewing on account of other … items … that the Duke found in the family house. That item Semminson followed is thought to be part of the set of those other items. And the Duke took those other items to the king’s coronation, where they made a stir when she gave them to the king.”

“And so Count Andressat goes north, worried about Alured. Does
he
know of this item?”

“He heard about it in the north. Wait—did he mention it to anyone while you were there?”

“I don’t think so. He might have told his sons.”

“Probably safe enough.”

Burek thought of the angry third son. “I’m not sure,” he said. “One of his sons seems to be the family troublemaker. He stormed off just before I left, angry that his father was acknowledging me.”

“But surely he wouldn’t go to Alured,” Selfer said. “And anyway, the king and the Duke know that rumors about the items had already spread through the markets in Vérella.”

“And might have reached Aarenis,” Burek said, nodding. “If it was known at the coronation, then word would have reached here within two tendays, easily. From there to Cortes Immer, supposing he was at Cortes Immer, certainly before the Autumn Evener. Faster if Alured—Vaskronin as he calls himself now—had spies out as far as the north.”

“Duke Verrakai thought he would,” Selfer said.

“So whatever these items are, they’re something he would want?”

“Oh, yes.” Selfer got up and poured mugs of sib for both of them, then opened the door, looked out, and closed it again. “You might as well know so if you hear gossip you can report it. Duke Verrakai found a hidden crown and other royal regalia. She gave it to the king in proof of her loyalty. The other item is a necklace believed to be part of that regalia, separated from it long ago—no one can imagine how—but the box that holds the rest had an empty compartment.”

“So … what would I hear about?”

“The necklace? I never saw it, but Paks described it to Phelan last winter—sapphires and diamonds.”

“You’re sure this Arvid didn’t take it and just lie about it?”

“Not completely, no. But I do know the Marshal-General had invited him to Fin Panir because she said so when she was visiting the Duke.”

“I suppose, if Vaskronin gets the necklace, he’ll use the stones to make himself a crown.”

“Maybe. But they think—the Duke, the Marshal-General—that he’s after the rest of it, to gain legitimacy for the claim that he’s the true heir to Old Aare—and thus Aarenis and the north both. That last year of Siniava’s War, he started saying a priest had told him that years ago.” Selfer took a long swallow of sib. “Ridiculous—it’s been generations and generations since there was a king in Aarenis. Nobody knows who might be, if anyone is. And Old Aare … nobody lives there now but a few pirates on the coast. What good would it do to claim the throne of a pile of rock and sand dunes?”

A knock on the door, and Poldin M’dierra peeked in. “Captain Selfer, Captain Ivats sent me to ask what your orders are for the rest of the day.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Selfer said. “Burek, I’ll give the early watch to Ivats, the late one to me. You’ve got the night off, but I don’t recommend a late stroll down to the Dragon.”

“No, sir,” Burek said. “I’ll start an inventory this afternoon, if you’d like to brief Ivats.”

“Good, then.”

Burek spent the rest of the day with Maia, the Company quartermaster,
preparing the inventory Count Arcolin would need when he arrived from the north. Supper that evening at the officers’ table felt awkward until they were halfway through the hearty meal. Burek liked Ivats and the young M’dierra was eager to show himself useful, but Burek and Selfer could not discuss the topic that most interested them at the moment with the others present. Then Ivats sat back with a satisfied sigh.

“If I could borrow your cook to teach that fellow at our inn how to cook cut-legs …”

“Not a chance,” Selfer said, grinning. “We know what we have.”

“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.

A
rvid 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.”