Limits of Power (52 page)

T
he next time the grange met for drill, Marshal Porfur announced that Count Andressat's youngest son was missing. “You all know there have been brigands in our area,” he said. “We are fortunate to be in a well-managed region like Foss Council that hired an additional force to protect us. And now we know the Count of Andressat's son is missing, believed taken, and a reward has been offered for information about him. I tell you this to make it clear that even a rich man with his own army is not perfectly safe. Even here in Ifoss, with Fox Company patrolling the roads, you know that a few villages have lost livestock and some have been injured. So every yeoman must be alert and ready to respond if there is danger. Some of you are old enough to remember Siniava's War—and other wars before—and we must pray to be spared another. Yet we must prepare. When winter comes, Fox Company will be gone; we must defend ourselves if trouble comes.”

“Who's the enemy this time?” someone asked. “Is it Vonja?”

“Why do you think Vonja?” Marshal Porfur asked. “They're in the Guild League, same as Foss Council.”

“Doesn't mean they can't be up to something,” the man said, standing forward. “My da said, in one of the battles in Siniava's War, they ran like rabbits.”

“That's as may be,” Porfur said. “But running away isn't the same thing as stealing someone's son. What I want you to do is tell the yeomen who aren't here—who've been skipping drill night—that this is no time to slack off. I think there's trouble coming.”

Arvid could feel the reluctance of these hardworking men to believe that skipping a drill night could put them at real risk. He said nothing, nor did any of the Fox Company soldiers attending that night. Drill went well, though the night was overwarm and even the walk back through the city did not dry all the sweat from working out.

“They don't know a thing,” one of the soldiers said.

“You didn't tell them anything,” Arvid said.

“Not my place to go telling what the Company knows to the locals,” the soldier said. “You should know that much.”

“I do, but … well, maybe they've heard Alured's name in the taverns. Or that new name … Vaskronin. I wonder where he got that. It doesn't sound like anything I've heard before.”

“Made it up, like as not,” the soldier said.

When they arrived back in camp, Arcolin called Arvid to his tent. “I need your expertise,” he said.

“My expertise?”

“You're surely aware that soldiers are offered stolen goods from time to time. We warn them, but they see something gaudy and think of a brother or sister back home—”

“You want me to stop them buying from thieves?”

“Not … exactly. We're being plagued by counterfeit coinage, and they get counterfeit coins in change—and then are accused of passing them when they try to buy something else. You knew this was a growing problem in the south, I assume.”

“No … no, I didn't.”

“Well, it is. The Guild League coins have been respected for generations; the Guild League has had a system of testing that eliminated most counterfeits. The only difference between the Guild League mints was the design on the obverse, the seal for each city. That testing still does eliminate counterfeits of the types seen before … if the counterfeit is light in weight or the wrong density to be a genuine coin.”

“It must be one or the other to be worth making,” Arvid said.

“Yes, you would think so. But the Guild League is now seeing counterfeits—we found some last year—that have too much silver or gold. Mostly silver.”

“That's … ridiculous.”

“Not if someone's trying to trust in the coinage. It doesn't matter which way it's wrong—unpredictably wrong is even worse than predictably wrong. It slows down the transfer of funds.”

“And what do you think I can do about that?”

“As a merchant you have a reason to express concern, and as a former thief you may have ways of finding out who's passing the counterfeits here in Ifoss. In Vonja last year it was a Guild trader who claimed he'd been coerced by a gang … He thought Alured was involved, and a family member had been taken.”

“I can try,” Arvid said. “But I don't know—the yeomen here know I was a thief—”

“Porfur told them? He shouldn't have.”

“Somebody did,” Arvid said. “I thought it was Porfur and was surprised, but maybe his yeoman-marshal, Gan. At any rate, I think it's likely others in the market will know. Makes it hard to ask questions without being noticed.”

Arcolin looked thoughtful and worried both. “If the yeomen know … some of them trade all the way to Valdaire—could the Thieves' Guild there find you here?”

“It's possible,” Arvid said. “There's only a small Guild presence here—most of 'em in Foss Council are in Foss itself. More traffic on the road, more … targets.”

“Have they shown any interest in you?”

“No. And I would know if they were,” Arvid said. “I'm keeping my oath, but I still have eyes and ears.”

“Still … they could hear from the yeomen if they're halfway competent.”

“They could. At least the Marshal didn't make me use my full name.” Porfur had insisted on knowing that full name but allowed him to keep using Burin as his surname.

“Perhaps I shouldn't ask you to do this…”

“I don't mind. It'll be a challenge.” Arvid grinned. He relished the thought of getting back into that familiar world, even on the opposite side.

“But it may be more dangerous than I thought—”

“Danger,” Arvid said, “is my delight.”

Arcolin looked at him a long time. “I hope you're joking,” he said finally. “That's the kind of thing I expect from boys who want to be squires.”

“I was never a squire,” Arvid said in a more serious tone. “And I am good with danger. I will find counterfeiters before they find me.”

“I hope so,” Arcolin said.

Despite what Arvid had said publicly, he knew that it was only a matter of time before the Valdaire branch of the Thieves' Guild penetrated his disguise and sent someone to assassinate him. As he had been on the other end of such assignments, he knew what precautions to take—and how little use they were if the assassin was truly skilled.

Yet Ifoss seemed remarkably clear of Thieves' Guild activity. His search for counterfeiters made no headway, and his activities in the market on Arcolin's behalf did not lure so much as a pickpocket. Perhaps the penalties dealt to the vill harboring brigands had scared them away, or perhaps the Guild had ordered a pause in their activities—which could mean assassins were about to arrive.

Despite the summer heat, Arvid never went out without his cloak and its useful pockets. He paid the Company armorer, with Arcolin's permission, to make him a lightweight mail shirt, though it was miserable to wear in that season. He ate and drank only in company with others, and only what they ate and drank, never taking his eyes from his own mug and plate until he was through.

He was in the market, buying fresh fruit for the camp, when the first attack came. He caught sight of someone in an alley smoking a pipe … no, a short blow-pipe. It would use darts. Arvid snatched a bullwhip from an astonished teamster and snapped it in the man's face; the man screamed and dropped the pipe. It shattered on the ground; a second man grabbed the first by the shoulders and pushed him down the alley.

Arvid looked at the broken pieces of pipe and the dark poison-tipped darts that lay beside it.

“That's my whip, you thief,” came an angry voice from behind him. The teamster and two other men had charged after him.

“It is indeed,” Arvid said, handing it back despite the man's red face and furious expression. “That fellow was trying to kill me. Look—” He pointed at the broken pipe and the darts.

“What's that?”

Arvid explained. One of the other men bent to pick up a dart. “Don't!” Arvid said. “They're tipped with poison.” The man jerked his hand back.

“How do you know that?” the teamster asked. He had coiled the whip and looped it to his belt. “What are you?”

“Oh, he's that merchant with Fox Company,” one of the others said. “I've seen him with the captain and at the grange, too.”

Arvid nodded. “That's right. I'm Ser Burin. I came from Valdaire with Fox Company.”

The teamster still looked suspicious. “But how did you know those were poison darts? And where did you learn to use a whip like that?”

“I did not start as a merchant,” Arvid said. “For a time I drove a team—freight—for a merchant.” He had, though only briefly. Mixing experiences, he went on. “Brigands use poisoned darts. Lost a guard to one once.”

“And where was that?” the teamster said.

Arvid shrugged. “Over the mountains, in Tsaia. Up there they use blow-pipes a lot.”

“Oh.” The teamster relaxed. “Never seen anyone but a teamster or a cattle drover so fast with a whip.”

“It's not a skill you forget,” Arvid said.

“Was he trying to kill you or someone else?”

“I'm not sure,” Arvid said. “I'll take these things to Marshal Porfur.”

“You should report this to a judicar,” one of the other men said.

“I'll find one,” another man said.

Soon Arvid found himself explaining to a judicar what the broken pieces of clay were.

“You're the one was attacked in that village, weren't you? You spoke at the trial of the villagers who broke contract with Count Arcolin.”

“Yes,” Arvid said.

“This was probably revenge for that testimony,” the judicar said. “Brigands, I expect—I don't think those villagers would risk another judgment.” Arvid had not thought of that possibility and accepted it gratefully as an alternative to explaining why the Thieves' Guild would be targeting him. “Would you recognize the men again?” the judicar asked.

“One should have a whip strike on his face,” Arvid said. “Other than that—I saw the face only with a blow-pipe to it, and never saw the face of the one who guided the first one away. Both were, I would say, about my height.”

The judicar took charge of the broken pieces of pipe and the darts. Arvid went to Porfur's grange, impelled by a hunch rather than a voice in his head.

“I need to talk to Marshal Porfur,” he said to the yeoman-marshal who answered the door.

“He's teachin' the childer,” the yeoman-marshal said.

“When will he be done?” Arvid asked.

“Another turn of the glass,” the yeoman-marshal said. “Anything I can help you with?”

“No,” Arvid said. “Unless … you know the time Regar and I were attacked?”

“Yes, of course,” the yeoman-marshal said.

“Well, it seems the brigand who came to that village may want revenge. Someone nearly killed me this morning with darts from a blow-pipe.”

The yeoman-marshal scowled. “Did you tell the judicars?”

“Of course,” Arvid said. “But the men got away—the man with the pipe and the man helping him. I do not know if trouble might come to the grange because of that.”

“Have you warned Regar?” the yeoman-marshal said.

“No, I came straight here,” Arvid said. “I suppose I should have gone to him first—”

“Not necessarily.” The yeoman-marshal opened the door wider. “Come on in; Marshal's in the barton, but I'll let you in the side entrance.”

Marshal Porfur had a double arc of children sitting on the ground around him. As they entered the barton, one of the children stood up and recited the seventh of the Ten Fingers in a squeaky voice.

“Excuse me, Marshal,” the yeoman-marshal said. “There's a problem.”

Marshal Porfur looked at the sandglass beside him on the ground; most of the sand had run out.

“Short or long?” he asked. Then, with another look at Arvid's face, he nodded and stood. “Long, I suspect. All right, juniors—that's all for the morning.”

The children scrambled up and headed for the street gate.

“Just a moment,” Porfur said. “You have forgotten order, I believe.”

They halted, turned, looked at one another and then at him, shuffled into two lines, then recited what was obviously a rote ending to the school day. “Thank you, Marshal, for your instruction. Gird's blessing be on you, and Gird's guidance on us.”

“That's better,” the Marshal said. “Go with Gird.”

When they had left, slamming the barton gate behind them, Porfur turned to Arvid and the yeoman-marshal and raised his brows.

Arvid told his tale again.

“I don't see that it would cause trouble here,” the Marshal said, “but I agree that Regar must be warned. We will visit him together. Do you know, Arvid, whether he will be at the stoneyard or at the building site?”

Arvid shook his head. “It varied from day to day, the time I worked there,” he said. “He always started the day in the yard but sometimes left for the site by midmorning and sometimes only after lunch.”

“We'll start with the yard,” the Marshal said.

Arvid saw nothing to alarm him as they walked back through the city. It was near noon; the smells of cooking food made his stomach growl, but he ignored that, paying attention only to the flow of traffic, the interest or indifference of those they passed. When they turned into the lane that led toward Regar's stoneyard, he felt something—as if he were being looked at with intent—but could not see anything.

Outside the stoneyard gate, they saw a wagon and team of mules. Nothing moved in the noon stillness. “They're eating lunch,” the Marshal said.

“No,” Arvid said. “We'd hear talking. And the muleteer never ate here or left the mules.” He put off his cloak and drew his sword. The Marshal stared at him but did the same. Arvid motioned for silence, then pointed at the wall. The Marshal's brows rose, but he said nothing as Arvid hoisted himself to the wall just high enough to see over. Regar, his wife, and several workmen lay gagged and bound; one of his other workmen was dead. Five men stood over them, silent for the moment. Arvid recognized two of them from the Guild in Valdaire; one had been on guard at the entrance when he'd carried his son out of the Guildhouse. He slid back down to the ground and motioned the Marshal away—out of earshot, he hoped.