Echoes of Betrayal (65 page)

Arvid thought about it. His life hadn’t changed after meeting her except for a sort of tickle in the mind, a curiosity about her. Had she worn the necklace? Had he changed her? He’d been sorry when he
heard she’d been cast out of the Fellowship, but he hadn’t bothered looking for her.

“Surely you recognize what happened,” the Marshal said. “Who found out Phelan was king? She did. Everyone the paladin touches changes, and change often hurts. Most of us in Valdaire knew of Duke Phelan even if we hadn’t met him. We knew his reputation; we’d seen him; his soldiers were here all winter every year, campaigned all over Aarenis in summer. I’d met his Captain Arcolin; he offered to the grange every year. Now Phelan’s a king, Arcolin’s a lord, that woman captain—the Falkian—is a duke: they all changed. Had to. You changed, too.”

“I didn’t notice,” Arvid said. “After I met her—nothing changed for a while.” But looking back now, he could see images of himself … He had left Brewersbridge as smug as ever, but … the cruelty bothered him more. He had carried out assignments … mostly …

“Would the man you were ten years ago have bothered to save her after the ordeal?”

“I don’t know,” Arvid said. His younger self, well armored against compassion, confident in his superiority to the common herd of thieves, something he still felt, but … but differently … “I suppose not,” he said. “I would have left the city, found some errand to pursue, but I would not have cared about her. But then I hadn’t met her.”

“And meeting her changed you,” the Marshal said. “I would say the change began with your first meeting—she intrigued you, she surprised you, isn’t that right?”

“Yes. But she wasn’t a paladin then.”

“True. She was one of Phelan’s soldiers—she came to the markets whenever the Company was in Valdaire, just like the other soldiers. I saw her; everyone saw her. None of us knew what she would be; we saw only the surface. But that has changed
me
: knowing that someone I saw more than once, that I dismissed as just another non-Girdish soldier, could become a paladin of Gird. I am less certain of my judgment of those I see.” The Marshal grinned suddenly. “And that’s why you’re still alive today. My old self might well have killed you for what I supposed you were doing to that boy who bears your name.”

“I’m no paladin,” Arvid said. “Nor like to be.”

“Maybe,” the Marshal said slowly. “But what the gods plan for you could surprise both of us.” He was silent a long moment; Arvid concentrated on his own breathing and saw with relief that his hands no longer trembled. “You’re calmer,” the Marshal said then. “But you have not eaten—you and the boy both need lunch. I’ll send him in and bring you something.”

“I have money,” Arvid said, reaching for his pocket.

The Marshal shook his head. “Not today. Today you will share our lunch.”

The boy Arvid came to the Marshal’s office hand in hand with one of the men, his hair still damp from a bath he’d been given, wearing clean patched trousers rolled up, a shirt that nearly came to his knees, and heavy wool socks on his bruised feet. He smiled shyly at Arvid. “M’ma named me … did she name you?”

“No, lad,” Arvid said. “My own mother did, and she died long ago.”

“Do you remember her?” the boy asked.

“Not well,” Arvid said. “I was young, about your age, and her face faded over the years.”

“My ma sang songs to me,” the boy said. “She said my da sang to her. So she gave me his name and said he’d given me his voice.”

Arvid’s throat closed. He had learned to sing as a child, not from his parents but as part of the Guild’s training: children who could sing could beg by singing and distract listeners from pickpockets and cutpurses. He’d had a good voice, he’d been told, and he’d been put up on a table to sing for the Guild itself more than once.

And as a man he’d sung sweet melodies to more than one lass, courting songs and bed songs both. How many of those happy nights had left sons and daughters scattered here and there? He’d never asked. He’d never cared enough.

“Are you my father?” the boy asked. The way he stood, the expression on his face, the tone of voice, all pierced Arvid’s heart.

“I don’t know,” he said, fighting the lump in his throat. “And I am sorry I don’t know. I do not know of any child I might have sired, but—Arvid—in my life I might have sired more than one. I am sorry I cannot tell you for certain.”

The boy looked at him—no anger, no fear, no condemnation. Not
the way Arvid had looked at his own father; he had been an angry boy, a troublemaker, his father insisted. “It is not your fault,” the boy said. Arvid shivered. Of course it was his fault that he did not know if he had children. Whose else could it be? But the boy went on. “But if it does not displease you, sir, because you rescued me, and did not kill me, and because we have the same name, I would … I would pretend that you are, in my own mind. Not to trouble you …”

He did not deserve this … this forgiveness, if that was what it was. This acceptance. And the boy himself did not deserve a liar, a thief, a murderer bent on vengeance as a father. But the boy stood there, watching, and he had to say something, something that would not quench the spirit in the boy’s eyes.

“It would not trouble me,” Arvid said. “It would not trouble me to have a son like you, and if you are truly my son, then I am content, and if you are not, then … then I will do for you what I think a father should do.” What he could do with gold, he would do. What a father should be—he did not know.

“You aren’t really a thief,” the boy said with certainty. “You wear black; you know thieves’ talk; you killed the Guildmaster, but you aren’t really a thief.”

He had been telling people for years that he was not a thief—telling himself he was not a thief—and all along he knew himself thief to the bone … but the boy’s words felt as heavy as stone.

“I was a thief,” Arvid said to the boy, his heart hammering. “But perhaps you are right, and I’m not a thief now.”

“Here we are,” the Marshal said, bustling in with a large round loaf and a hunk of cheese that filled the room with its pungent scent. One of the other men brought in two stools; the boy stood and backed into a corner. The Marshal moved the empty chair over and then waved the boy into it. “You there, lad, and we’ll have plenty of room. Bring us some water, Cal.”

Bread, water, and cheese made up the meal; the boy ate silently and fast, a style Arvid recognized from his own youth. Thief children weren’t ever plump. The Marshal and Cal—introduced at last as his yeoman-marshal—ate noisily, talking through mouthfuls of food about some grange business Arvid didn’t understand. He scarcely listened. He himself ate slowly—he was hungry but distrusted his
stomach after the day’s already abundant emotion. One bite of the cheese was enough; he ate bread and drank water, grateful for them.

Finally the Marshal belched and sat back. “And now, what to do with you and the boy,” he said. “Best thing for him is to find him a family, keep him safe and fed, and teach him a trade.”

“I want to stay with him,” the boy said, pointing to Arvid.

“Lad, he’s in danger himself; he can’t keep you as safe as a good solid family can.”

“They’ll be looking for him,” Arvid said to the Marshal. “They know him, and they’ll take him back if they can.”

“Out of Valdaire somewhere? On a farm?”

“Maybe. But the risk’s there until he’s man-grown.” Arvid looked at the boy. “It’s true what the Marshal says, young Arvid. I cannot keep you safe while I’m being hunted—or not as safe as someone else could.”

“Any chance you’re his father?” the Marshal asked.

Arvid spread his hands. “As I told the lad, I simply do not know. I have been in Valdaire before, before Siniava’s War as they call it in the north, and … it’s possible. But I made no promises and heard no word.” That was the way he’d always liked it: share a happy night or two, having made it clear he had no interest in staying, and walk away whistling. “I do have some gold, and that can go to help.”

“I’m not worried about that,” the Marshal said. He chewed his lip a moment. “See here, Arvid, the boy is not the only problem we have. Or that you have. You need to choose a path and stick to it—”

“You mean leave the Guild,” Arvid said.

“I mean join the Fellowship, become a Girdsman,” the Marshal said.

“I’m not—I can’t—you don’t understand,” Arvid said. “I’m not your kind of person. I can’t … I can’t just put on a blue shirt and change everything.”

You’re right about that, laddie
.

Arvid twitched. “I don’t … I don’t want to be—” How could he say it without offending them—and why did he care? “Ordinary,” he said at last. “I’m—”

The Marshal’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, no, you’re not
ordinary
. You’re intelligent and charming and gifted, and if you’re not the guest over there at the Dragon who took down four—or was it five?—thieves all
by yourself, I’d be very surprised. A gifted sneak, the way you got into and out of the Thieves’ Guild house today. A fine voice—I’m sure you sang to the girls you slept with—and graceful. Sophisticated, no doubt. And you think of us—of the Fellowship—as a collection of grubby, dull, not-very-bright peasants, don’t you?”

“Not … exactly. Not Paks. Not the Marshal-General.”

“And I’m sure she’s grateful for that.” The Marshal shook his head. “Arvid, back in Gird’s day it’s true that his followers were nearly all poor countryfolk, mostly unable to read or write—Gird himself wasn’t a scholar. That was a long time ago. Yes, we have many members who are farmers and many who are crafters and merchants—and many who are in every other occupation—other than the Thieves’ Guild.”

“Yes, but you’re …” “Good” was the word hovering over his tongue, and the Marshal seemed to read it out of the air.

“Good, I suppose, is what’s bothering you. Stuffy and priggish, maybe? Narrow-minded, perhaps?”

Arvid was aware of the boy’s eyes shifting from face to face like a child watching a pair of jugglers perform. Inside his head, he was aware of a vast amusement. “Well—I—yes, sometimes. And I’m not—I mean, you know I’ve done things you wouldn’t approve of.”

“And so have I done things I don’t approve of,” the Marshal said. “I’m not perfect—don’t pretend to be. I’m perhaps less interested in fashion than you would be if you didn’t prefer black—”

Arvid could not help grinning at that. “Perhaps.”

“Well, I was plain as a barrel and shaped like one from childhood, Arvid. No use trying for elegance. But I recognize it when I see it, appreciate it, and know good quality from bad.”

“In other words … you think I take pride in what I should not take pride in.”

“No. Not at all. I think you don’t take pride in what you
should
take pride in … in addition to your knowledge, your skills, your handsome face.”

“And that would be?”

“I told you. You aren’t cruel. That’s a start. And you’ve saved two lives—Paksenarrion’s and this lad’s—that you didn’t have to. Build on that.”

F
ive days after the wedding, most of the guests had started home. Arian took advantage of the relative quiet to invite Estil Halveric and several Queen’s Squires to spend a quiet afternoon relaxing in the queen’s chambers. Arian felt tired; her muscles ached. She wasn’t sure if it was from the crowds and ceremonies or if this was something that happened in pregnancy. Her Squire’s uniform had been uncomfortably snug for the past couple of days; after a brief session in the salle that morning, she’d left it off, putting on softer, looser clothing since she would be among friends.

In the midst of a discussion of the new candidates for King’s and Queen’s Squires, Arian felt something inside, not quite a cramp but a strong sensation. She put a hand to her abdomen.

“What is it?” asked Estil Halveric.

“I think it must be the baby moving,” Arian said. “Or maybe something I ate—but it’s—strong.”

“It’s early if you conceived at Midwinter,” Estil said. “Though I don’t know with half-elves—”

“Very early for half-elves,” Kaelith said. “Half-elven babies are almost three tendays longer from conception to birth; I’m surprised you’re feeling movement now. Halfway between the Evener and Midsummer to as late as Midsummer is what I’d expect.”

Arian sat back. “Well, we’ve all been eating rich foods the past few days. Maybe it’s just that. It just feels … different.”

The conversation they’d been having about Dorrin Verrakai shifted to what Kaelith remembered her mother telling her about the difference in pregnancies between half-elf and human. The pastries on the tray disappeared one by one as the afternoon passed. Arian felt anchored to her chair, as if the child within were much heavier than it could possibly be. Suddenly she felt another movement—sudden and strong enough to be painful.

“Arian?” Estil said, watching her.

“It’s—I think it must be something I ate. Too many pastries.” The pain eased; Arian settled back against the pillows. Her mouth wanted another of the jam-filled crispy ones, but she wouldn’t risk it.

“I don’t like your color,” Estil said. “I’m going to call—”