The next morning, while dressing, Arvid told Dattur what he’d heard the night before.
“They used gnome road?” Dattur had slept in his clothes as always; though Arvid had promised to turn his back, the gnome was unwilling to show his skin again to a human. Now he stopped in the act of putting on his shoes.
“That’s what I understood,” Arvid said. He checked the set of his knives. “That would be unusual, wouldn’t it?”
“It would be fatal without permission,” Dattur said. “And it is not given. Not that I ever heard. So they must have done something for the prince, and it must be something important.”
“They were Phelani soldiers,” Arvid said. “Older men. What could Phelani do that gnomes would reward like that?”
Dattur shook his head. “It is not sense to me. That princedom is powerful. That prince will not need their service. Information, maybe. But what information?”
“The necklace?” Arvid said. “But I don’t see why—I was told gnomes knew it existed but had disclaimed knowledge of it or its jewels.”
“It would not be the necklace,” Dattur said, tying the laces of his shoes. “And the men should not remember.”
“They said no one else did.” Arvid ran a rag over his shoes and put them on.
“Should be no one. And they think they know entrance?”
“If I heard them right,” Arvid said.
“Many want to know that,” Dattur said. “Entrance to the halls—”
“But you said it would be fatal to enter uninvited. Guards always there, I’m guessing.”
“No.” Dattur stared at the floor for a long moment. “It is … it is that … it is rock, my lord, and I cannot say more than that. Not in a language you know.” He muttered something Arvid couldn’t quite hear that sounded like the clatter of pebbles rolling down a slope. Then he looked up. “Do you think they will tell others what they remember?”
“I don’t know,” Arvid said. “Will you come down, or shall I bring you morning food?”
“They must not,” Dattur said, without answering Arvid’s question.
“I agree,” Arvid said. “Many would want to know, and if they are known to have such knowledge, some will seek to force it from them.”
“Do you know anything of the man you saw listening?”
“No, except he was trying to hide his face and had a surly temper. I suspect he was a spy, most likely in the Guild or working for the Duke of Immer.”
“Who is said to seek a crown.”
“Yes. And would no doubt take the necklace if it came near him.” Arvid sighed. “I’m hungry, Dattur, and while I am hungry and have money, I find it good to eat.”
“Go, then, my lord,” Dattur said. “I will eat later. We must not be seen together, even in the morning. Not after that. And you should change your cloak.”
“You did an excellent job mending it.”
“Do you not think another thief would recognize it? Black—with those pockets—and while they do not show on the outside by any bulges, the way it swings—”
Arvid spread his hands. “What would you have me do, Dattur? Go unarmed into a city full of enemies?” And yet, before Dattur spoke again, he realized it would signal “thief” to another in the Guild. “No, you’re right,” he said. “I thought, over colored clothes—and many wear black.”
“But not that kind of black cloak,” Dattur said. “Why not blue?”
“Girdish? But I’m not Girdish.”
Yet.
Arvid shivered but turned his mind from the voice.
“Green, then,” Dattur said. “I could sew pockets in that—take them from your black cloak if you cannot find the right skins and cloth. The hang would not be so noticeable in a colored cloak. And, if I may say so, a padded doublet under it, so from behind you look … heavier.”
Arvid went down to breakfast without his black cloak. When he came up with a bowl of apples and nuts for Dattur, the gnome had already cut the cloak two handspans shorter, making it look more like a merchant’s city style, not a traveler’s. Arvid put it on; it did not reach his knees, and he knew it would give him a different silhouette.
He already knew where to find tailors in that quarter of the city and knew, too, that they kept a stock of ready-made cloaks. Arvid forced himself to choose one as far from his own taste as possible: blue, green, and brown plaid with an edging of dyed rabbit fur around the hood, the whole lined in green. But the cut would lend itself to his purposes. He bought a blue quilted-velvet winter tunic cut to fit over a doeskin doublet dyed green; the tunic laced with green cords.
He changed into the new clothes, resigned now to looking like any other respectable but not wealthy merchant. At a glover’s, he bought a pair of long black gloves “for winter riding” and some glove leather dyed to match to make pocket linings for his new cloak. Well before noon, he was back at the inn, upstairs. Dattur nodded his approval.
“I have to admit I’m warmer,” Arvid said. He loosened the tunic laces. “And I’m sure I look heavier.” He sighed. “But we should leave in case that fellow last night reports on me. I didn’t see recognition in his eyes, but if he’s good at descriptions—”
“Where?” asked Dattur. He had laid the new cloak, spread wide open, on the bed; the cut end of Arvid’s old cloak lay on his own, along with its shortened top, and he was marking where to attach the pockets on the plaid one with a bit of chalk.
“That I don’t know,” Arvid said. With the beds covered in cloaks, he could not lounge on one; he pulled a stool from the corner and sat down. “I would like to leave my regards with the Guild—”
“You should leave them alone,” Dattur said. “My lord,” he added. More and more he forgot to say it; Arvid preferred the informality.
“Do your people ignore insult and unprovoked attack?” Arvid asked.
“No, but … my lord, you are but one man, and the Guild here has many members. And you came here on the trail of the necklace …”
“I wish I’d never seen the damned necklace,” Arvid said. “It’s been nothing but trouble for me since I gave it to Paks.”
“Indeed?” Dattur leaned back. “Was it not because of her that you became head of the Guild in Vérella? And because of her that the Marshal-General herself sought you out and asked you to come to Fin Panir?”
“Yes … and look what that got me.”
“It saved my life, so I’m not inclined to think it was the gods’ ill will,” Dattur said. “But if you regret it—”
“Of course I don’t regret it,” Arvid said. “But—” He stood up and strode back and forth around the small room. “I feel … I feel a trap closing in on me. Not the Guild assassins or whoever that man worked for … There’s a … a pressure inside.”
Dattur’s small black eyes seemed to glitter for a moment, then he looked down. “It might be,” he said, “that in all this there is a god seeking you.”
“I was happy as I was,” Arvid said, louder than he meant to. His voice sounded querulous to him, not the suave faintly amused voice he had cultivated so long. “I was,” he said more softly. “Dattur, you’re kteknik and I’ve never asked why.” The gnome said nothing; he might have been stone himself. “I’m not asking now,” Arvid went on. “But surely you felt … felt more free once you were cast out and yet also bereft.”
“To a gnome, the Law is the greatest comfort in life,” Dattur said. “We rest in the Law as men rest in their beds on a cold night: around us is chaos and evil, but in the Law we are safe.” He looked up, straight at Arvid’s face, and Arvid could not turn away. “To be cast out of the Law—to be forced to live without it, even to the matter of clothing, forced to live among strangers as well—is the greatest pain. It is no pleasure. What it is that you humans call freedom is to us like … like sleet and fire together on bare skin.”
“I am sorry,” Arvid said. He wanted to ask why, then, gnomes ever broke their Law, but the misery in Dattur’s face stopped the words in his throat, un
said.
“My lord, I come near saying what must not be said to one who holds my life,” Dattur said. Still he stared, as if willing Arvid to understand.
“I do not ask what you do not wish to say,” Arvid said.
“My lord, you have been courteous to me in all things,” Dattur said. “You have taken care for me, as if I were your … your son and not your servant. It is harder for me to do what I must to repay you what I owe when you are so … I forget and take liberties. And yet I see no end to this. I have not completed my prince’s punishment, and I have not come nearer repaying you—”
“Your saving my life twice is not enough? I deem it so and would free you if you would accept my word.”
Dattur shook his head. “You were wounded saving mine, and wounded with my blade. I make no complaint, my lord, and I serve you willingly, but … it is not easy.”
“What could I do to make it easier?”
“Nothing.”
Arvid felt simultaneously a cold chill down his back and a warm pressure, as of a friendly hand, on his head. He shuddered. Whatever was happening would change him—had changed him—and he had been as comfortable in himself before as Dattur within the gnomish Law. Dattur bore that without complaint …
“I cannot see a way to revenge myself on the Guildmaster here, who so disrespected me and sent me to torment and death, as he thought, and also to regain my position in Vérella without risking you, who are not of this quarrel. And the necklace—I have no idea where it is by now. Could it have reached that Duke of Immer? Would the Marshal-General want me to go there?”
“Do you want to be always a thief in Vérella?”
That was not a question he expected. “I want to be—” Who I was, Arvid thought, that confident, sophisticated, witty man who had been so certain of his superiority. He could never convince the gnome he was not a thief, yet the gnome felt bound to him. “I cannot abide the thought that I might never be what I was before,” he said finally. “As you cannot abide the thought that you might never return to your prince.”
“Ah,” Dattur said. “My lord, I am bound to your service, but within that I am able to perform any service you require. Perhaps my lord will permit me to suggest that a little more knowledge of the Law would be helpful?”
“I don’t want to be a judicar,” Arvid said.
“No, you have not the temperament,” Dattur said. “But like many humans you misunderstand the purpose and use of Law. I could teach you.”
Valdaire, day before Midwinter Feast
Burek, junior captain of Arcolin’s cohort in what was now widely known as Fox Company, arrived back in Valdaire from Cortes Andres with an escort of Phelani a day before Midwinter Feast; he had told none of them of his new status. If it was status. He could not imagine himself using the Andressat name, especially in the current political situation. Troops were just finishing drill in the winter-quarters courtyard when he and his escort rode in; the mountains rising above and behind the compound were lit by the westering sun, the snow there rose-gold.
“Welcome back,” Captain Selfer said. “You’re just in time for Midwinter Feast.”
“Is Lord Arcolin here yet?” Burek asked.
“No,” Selfer said. “I wouldn’t expect him until spring; the pass is closed.”
Burek dismounted and handed the reins to one of the men assigned to stable duty, giving the horse a pat on the rump as it was led away. “I have word he should hear,” he said. “Can couriers get through?”
“Not now,” Selfer said. “We’re on our own until his return.”
“Well, then, I must tell you,” Burek said. Selfer nodded and led the way to the officers’ quarters, a corner of the compound fitted out for their use.
“What is it, then? Are you not fit for duty?”
“Oh, that—yes, though the surgeon in Cortes Andres told me to avoid blows to the arm for another six hands of days. I am doing exercises daily to strengthen it again.” Selfer handed him a cup of sib, and Burek took a sip. “What it is—you know what I thought of my parentage.”
“Yes.”
“It’s true. Andressat acknowledged me, wanted me to stay and take my place as his grandson.”
Selfer’s eyes widened. “So you’re leaving us?”
“No. No, I told him I bore no rancor, but this is my life now—a life that suits me—and though I am glad to count him friend and respect him as my grandfather, I am not … I don’t belong.” Burek took another swallow of sib. “He introduced me to his sons. One of them left rather than speak to me as family. I do not want that burden on my heart.”
“But surely—to be acknowledged—and you would have a home—”
“Would you leave this Company to go home—wherever your home is?” Burek asked.
“Well … no. But my home is a tiny barony in a badly managed dukedom; my father had eight sons, of which I’m fifth. It’s not big enough for us all, not that we quarrel … it’s just not enough. So I left to become Duke Phelan’s squire, and others left as well. If they needed me … but they don’t.”
“So you understand.”
“Yes, but I have a name and family—I have always had a name—”
“And so have I,” Burek said. “Burek is a good name; it was my foster father’s.”
“You don’t mind—”
“I don’t. I honor the old man for acknowledging me—I had thought him so proud he never would, but though he has a great sense of honor, he is not arrogant. I admire him. To know that he would bring me into the family openly—that is a comfort, I admit, but I am better here.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Selfer said. “Your troops respect you, and I need the help. I’d hate to have to break in another who is new to the Company.”
“Another?”
“Yes. I was Captain Dorrin—now Duke Verrakai’s—junior captain and took over her former cohort. Cohorts are meant to have a senior and a junior captain; Count Arcolin’s message sending me here authorized me to hire a captain, subject to his approval in the spring. I might have waited, but with you injured and no certainty you’d return, I went to Golden Company for advice—they had recommended you, after all. M’dierra had no recommendations this year, so I went to the hiring hall and found a former Clart officer who’d retired but then found it boring. It feels odd to have a junior captain older than I am, but I felt I could not wait.”
“How is Sergeant Stammel?” Burek asked.
“Arcolin said he was blind,” Selfer said. “I was in Lyonya, and then with Captain—with Duke Verrakai in that domain, until Count Arcolin sent for me. And his word met me in Vérella, so I never saw Stammel. It is hard to believe—he was always so—” Selfer spread his hands. “I don’t know what he’ll do.”
“Did Lord Arcolin tell you about the Blind Archer?” Burek asked. Selfer shook his head; Burek recounted that story.
“So … he’s going to stay in the Company and fight as a blind archer?” Selfer said.
“I don’t know. The troops want him back, but there’s more to being cohort sergeant than that. He knows that, surely. Sergeant Devlin was beginning to talk about Stammel not returning … but it’s up to Lord Arcolin in the end, I suppose.”
“And Stammel himself,” Selfer said.
They ate early in the last evening light, and Burek met the other captain, Harnik. Short and wiry like many cavalry troopers, he might have been made of rawhide thongs burnished dark by long usage as much as the southern sun. Though some cavalry favored long hair, Harnik had gone almost bald and had trimmed the remainder of his curly gray hair close to his neck.
“I hear you saved old Andressat’s life,” Harnik said after they’d been introduced. “I remember seeing him in Siniava’s War, when we fought with the Red Fox—arrogant old fellow, isn’t he?”
“Perhaps he’s mellowed,” Burek said.
Harnik snorted. “And perhaps rock melts in the sun. But he is older, and sometimes it happens old men go soft.”
Burek g
lanced at Selfer, but Selfer did not look up from his plate. What would Arcolin have done? Let the man talk, learn from him what his talk yielded about himself. Burek reached for the pot of honey and dipped some onto his bread. After dinner, Harnik had the early watch and went out to inspect the line of sentries.
“I’m glad you said nothing about Andressat’s mission to the north,” Selfer said.
“Do you think Harnik is a spy?” Burek asked.
“No. I think he is a man who says what he knows, or what he thinks he knows, which can be worse,” Selfer said. “I did ask Clart’s man of business—Clart himself is away somewhere—but was told only how long Harnik had served and that he’d retired. Not a word against him, and I imagine he’s brave in a fight. The problem is … I know he talks—and loudly—when he’s in his cups. What you and I know about Andressat must not be talked of.”
“Well, I’m not supposed to drink much for a quarter-year,” Burek said. “So if there are things to be done that should not be let out, send me.”
“I will,” Selfer said. “And I’m glad to have you back, someone who knows our ways. Harnik’s a willing worker, but he still uses ‘near’ and ‘off’ for ‘left’ and ‘right’ half the time in drill. Our people are learning—but also he knows nothing about standard sword drill. And on top of that, though Devlin’s experienced and doing well as senior sergeant of your cohort, my senior sergeant stayed with Dorrin in the north. Both of us have short cohorts and less experienced junior sergeants and corporals. I hope Arcolin brings us plenty of new troops to fill in.”
The nightlong Midwinter vigil did not include Burek; the Company surgeon insisted he go to bed. The next day, as observed in the northern tradition, was a day of games and revelry for the troops. Burek took the first watch, carrying up a basket of warm honeycakes and fried snow to share with the sentries on the wall. Watches were short, so everyone had a chance at the fun. Burek spent his off-watch in the afternoon reading the Company logbook.