Limits of Power (36 page)

“Did you ever?”

“Yes. Or thought I did.” Arvid sighed. “I am a shadow of myself here, a false person, and—”

A knock came at the door. “Dattur?” Arvid said.

“Yes,” came the answer.

“We have men from Fox Company,” Arvid said. “Come in if you will.”

Arcolin looked at the gnome who entered: dressed in colors, not a gnomish uniform, and thus
kteknik.
He summoned the gnomish he'd learned and greeted the gnome in that language. “Welcome, rockbrother, and forgive my errors in your tongue.”

Bright black eyes looked back at him. “It is that you speak the words of Law?”

“It is that those rockbrothers I know taught me it was more courteous to greet you in your language.”

“No obligation,” the gnome said. Then, cocking his head to one side, he asked in Common, “What gnomes? What princedom?”

“Their princedom fell,” Arcolin said, “and they are
kteknik
by the Law.”

“They? But princes do not exile whole princedoms—” The gnome walked up to Arcolin and stared straight in his face.

“I have the word of a dragon,” Arcolin said, “and the word of the estvin of the rockbrethren. The dragon thinks their prince betrayed a trust—”

“A
dragon's
trust?” the gnome said; his voice had weakened, and his skin paled. “They
dared
?”

“Their estvin thinks the prince was captured, perhaps tortured … The princedom, he said, had been weakened by many attacks, and no one came to aid. When the final attacks came, those remaining were too weak to prevent what happened.”

“You know what happened!”

“Yes. The dragon's—”

“No! Do not say it. It is not to say, never. It is not Law for you to know, and you must not say!”

“Dattur, what is it?” Arvid asked.

Dattur glanced back at him and then stared again at Arcolin. His accent thickened as he spoke. “It is that a pact, a binding, made between dragon and rockfolk in old age. It is not to speak. It is not to fail. Hakken failed, being not of Law. Bad … bad came. Dragon gave task to us—to rockfolk of Law. Each princedom made binding.” His eyes closed; Arcolin felt the stones of the floor trembling against his boots.

“Dattur,
no
!” Arvid said. Dattur's eyes opened, but he did not look at Arvid.

“It is must.”

“No! As your
master,
Dattur, I command you. Do no rock magery here!”

The stones quieted. Arcolin felt cold chills, a reaction to a threat he had not recognized. What had the gnome thought to do? And why had the gnome obeyed Arvid?

“What happened to those?” Dattur asked Arcolin.

“They were cast out of their stone-right by a dragon,” Arcolin said. “In winter. I took them in; by now they will have moved into new stone in my domain.”

“You … you saved them?”

“I was not,” Arcolin said, his voice roughening as it did every time he thought of those exiles, “going to see women and children starve and freeze in the snow.”

“You are their prince,” Dattur said, as if he announced that apples grew on apple trees: simple fact.

Arcolin stared. “Prince? No, I'm no prince. A peer of Tsaia, yes, but not a prince.”

“Prince of new place,” Dattur said. “Who gives stone is prince.”

“But—”

“Is no question. It is that you are prince of … of Arcolinfulk.”

The gnome appeared perfectly serious; gnomes always did.

“But I'm not a gnome. And I don't know your Law, only Girdish law.”

“Is no question. It is that a princedom falls, a prince fails, the fulk
kteknik
… and if new stone-right, then new prince. Law.”

“Oh,” Arcolin said. It was all he could think to say. Then, “I thought the estvin would become the new prince.”

“No. Law. You.”

“They didn't tell me,” Arcolin said. Dattur's expression made it clear that he thought Arcolin should have known, and probably the gnomes in the north thought the same.

“I wish you luck,” Arvid said. He had a glint in his eye that suggested secret amusement. Dattur rounded on him.

“Is no luck. Is
Law.
” He turned back to Arcolin. “It is necessary that the prince learn Law, to speak Law to the people.”

“I cannot go north now,” Arcolin said. “I have duties here. Contracts.”

Dattur considered for a moment, then nodded. “Contract is law under Law. Promise given must be kept. And you have king, is it not? Oath to king?”

“Yes,” Arcolin said.

“Oath is law under Law. Is right; you cannot go until fulfilled.”

I
don't know how I'm going to explain to the king that I'm now a gnome prince,” Arcolin said to Selfer after they were back in quarters. “It's ridiculous. I can't be a gnome; I don't know their Law…”

“I don't see that you have a choice, my lord,” Selfer said. He wasn't grinning, which was a mercy.

“And defining a uniform for them—I gave them the cloth we had, not gray. It's all wrong. They didn't tell me.”

“You could order gray cloth, have it sent up.”

“I could, but—I know it's the details, and I don't know anything about that.”

“Dattur probably does.”

“I suppose. But it's one more thing…” He shook his head. “And that Arvid fellow: Marshal Steralt wants my opinion of him. What's yours?”

“He's been honest with us, my lord. He's passed on useful information. Fought off thieves at the inn, too, one night. Killed 'em. Jostin at the Dragon has only praise for him. He's in danger now; I know that.”

T
he next morning, Arcolin confirmed the proxy oaths, then rode across town to find Nasimir Clart. Clart was in the common room of his company's lodgings, eating an early lunch.

“Thank you for helping out,” Arcolin said. He waved a waiter over and ordered sib and the cheese crisps this inn was known for.

“Ivats enjoyed his time with you, but you can't have him. I hold his contract for another two years,” Clart said, grinning.

“I'm not trying to poach,” Arcolin said. “Thought you might like the latest news from the north, firsthand.”

“You're prospering, I can see that,” Clart said. “Count, isn't it? Should I bend the knee?”

“Hardly,” Arcolin said, grinning. “You've heard about the war up there?”

“Business?” Clart leaned forward.

“No. War's over. Pargun attacked Lyonya; they were repelled. Halveric won't be coming south again for a long time, though—Phelan's hired them as the core of a standing army. And they're short—they lost nearly a cohort in the war.”

“Tsaia?”

“Worried about unrest in the South, but with Pargun out of contention, things are much calmer. I've told my king about Alured the Black.” Arcolin took a bite of the little triangular cheese pastries. “My king let me bring the whole Company south; last year he wouldn't. I'm hoping to recruit more this year.”

“Some strange rumors going around,” Clart said. “A mysterious treasure in the north—or treasure
from
the north.” He raised one eyebrow as he reached for his mug.

“From the north maybe,” Arcolin said, treading carefully around his king's prohibitions. “There was a necklace stolen from Fin Panir—from the Girdish treasury.”

“Necklace … doesn't sound like what I was hearing.” Clart wiped his mouth.

“Someone was killed for the necklace,” Arcolin said.

“That bastard Alured's after it, whatever it is. Can't see him so interested in just a necklace. It's a crown he wants, clear enough. And if he gets control of the Guild League, he can afford whatever crown he wants.”

“Think he'd really move on the north?” Arcolin asked. Clart raised his brows but said nothing. “I'm a peer of Tsaia now; I owe my king fealty. He's worried.”

“He should be,” Clart said after a cautious glance around. “The man's mad, I think. Surely Immer's a big enough prize for anyone … but he wants it all. You know; you were here last year and ran into more than you expected over in Vonja, isn't that right?”

“Indeed,” Arcolin said.

“He's stirring up trouble between the cities; I'm sure he's behind the counterfeiting. There've been disappearances—even murders—over the winter, more than usual. Guildmasters, traders and city-bound both. Lot of suspicion all around. Your contract's with Foss, I hear—”

“Yes.”

“We're with Sorellin, mobile patrols. We expect trouble. If he can wear us all out with one little war after another—”

“Yes,” Arcolin said, cutting him off with a flick of one finger. He had seen another mercenary captain approaching.

Clart looked up and scowled. “Blues,” he said under his breath. The commander of Blue Company gave them both a bleak glance and walked past without a word. Clart watched him; Arcolin didn't turn around. “He's gone into the back,” he said. “He's still angry with you. More about your hiring his former captain than about winter quarters, I hear.”

“Arneson's a good man,” Arcolin said. “He's taken over as recruit captain up north.”

“It was a bad business,” Clart said. “I'm glad you took him on.” He sipped from his mug of sib, then said, “I hear the Blues have contracted east this year.”

“How far east?”

“East of Cilwan. One of his soldiers told one of mine they're not coming back to Valdaire next winter, either. Nothing definite, but I'd guess hiring to the pirate lord.”

Arcolin thought back to Siniava's War and the long pursuit … the marches, the battles, the ambushes. “Alured tried to bully Andressat, you know.”

Clart snorted. “Andressat? Nobody bullies him. He might as well be a king, for his pride.” He stretched and pushed back from the table. “You'll pardon me, Arcolin, but we've got a long exercise today and new mounts to train. I must go.”

“Of course,” Arcolin said. He laid his hand on the meal-tag an instant before Clart touched it. “Mine, this time,” he said. “For your kindness.”

“Least I could do,” Clart said. He paused. “If I learn anything that doesn't breach contract—I'll send word.”

“And I the same.” On his way out, Arcolin thought of others who might be willing to share news of Immer. M'dierra of Golden Company. Other commanders he'd known over the years. Perhaps a visit to the Mercenaries' Hall.

T
he next time Arcolin met with Dattur and Arvid, he asked Dattur about uniforms for the gnomes in the north. “I did not realize I had that responsibility,” he said. “I gave them cloth, but it was not gray.”

“They were
kteknik;
that was appropriate,” Dattur said. His accent had softened, Arcolin noticed, with familiarity.

“But now, if I am their prince, are they still
kteknik
?”