“I think, sir,” he said quietly, “that you and I—and Paks, perhaps—should have a quiet word together.”
“I think that indeed, young sir. Yet I would not have it noticed—for I am convinced that someone in this town is telling dangerous tales.”
“You may be right—”
“I am,” said Arvid with calm authority. “We must meet—and we must meet quietly.”
Mal sat forward. “Isn’t that the way to be noticed, sir, in this town?”
Arvid glanced at him. “You would know, I expect.”
Mal grinned broadly. “Oh yes . . . I would know. And if you’re speaking to our yeoman-marshal, I guess I’d like to be there.”
“Mal!”
“No offense, yeoman-marshal, but I’ve seen his sword-work, remember? You know I can keep quiet.”
Arvid smiled the same charming smile at Mal. Paks noticed that Mal simply absorbed it, without changing expression—he looked very much like a stupid country lout. “That’s fine with me, sir. I am not intending assassination of your yeoman-marshal—or corruption, either—and you are welcome to watch me as closely as you wish.”
The Council meeting that evening was straightforward. Paks, seconded by Mal, gave her account of the attack. Sir Felis reported his interview with the captured robbers, and turned over a list of the captured arms and other valuables. Paks was asked why she had not entered and explored the keep, but the Council accepted her explanation without surprise or comment. Even the Master Stonemason seemed content. They argued a bit over the arms, and finally awarded her a third of their value. Hebbinford recommended that the black horse be given to her outright, and after some discussion it was done. No one mentioned the master-thief that Ambros, Arvid, and even Sir Felis believed to be still lurking in the ruins.
Afterwards, Ambros, Paks, Mal, Sir Felis, and Arvid all gathered at the grange. Arvid lagged behind them, and when they were all sitting down in the chairs Ambros fetched from the Marshal’s study, he lounged against the door.
“I have endured quite a bit of your suspicion,” he said calmly. “I think perhaps I should tell you precisely what I’m doing here—though I should prefer that you don’t tell everyone else.”
“Why not?” asked Sir Felis, looking grim.
“Because I can be a great help to you,” said Arvid. “If you choose to spread my fame too widely, I’ll simply leave.”
“Well, then?”
Arvid looked pointedly at Ambros. “The yeoman-marshal is the one I’d like to speak to. Will you, young sir, swear to say nothing of my guild or mission?”
“I—I don’t know.” His hand was on his medallion. “If you’re evil—”
“Evil!” Arvid laughed. “Sir, I am not what you would call good, but I serve no evil deity—that I will swear, and on your Relic, if you demand it.” He looked at Paks. “I am no more evil than this warrior—she is not Girdish, nor am I, but we have both spilled robbers’ blood today alongside your yeomen.”
Ambros flushed. “I will keep your secrets, sir, as long as they do not dishonor Gird. But as to that, I will be the judge.”
“Fair enough. I trust the honor of the Fellowship of Gird.” Arvid glanced around, gathering all their eyes on him. “Now: some of you—and many others—have thought I was a thief. I am not. I am, however, acquainted with the Thieves Guild.” He paused, and the silence thickened. “I am, in fact, on a mission for them at this time.”
“And you ask me, a yeoman-marshal of Gird, to keep silence?” Ambros jumped up. Arvid’s hand rested on his sword.
“Wait, sir. Hear me out. Your own yeoman will tell you I was happy enough to attack robbers this morning; I am no thief myself. The situation is more complicated than that.” He waited until Ambros was seated again, and then pulled a chair near the door for himself. “Now, be attentive. The Thieves Guild, however little you like its craft, is like any guild designed to keep the craftsmen in order. As far as its power runs, and that is far, it controls not merely the theft but also the sale of stolen goods. Some time ago, the Guild Headquarters in Vérella realized that caravans were being robbed near here—and their goods appeared distantly, sold without Guild authority. Or taxation.” He looked around to be sure they were all listening. “You see the problem. It could not be permitted to continue. A renegade thief is a danger not only to you, but to other thieves. The Guild Council determined to find out who was responsible. They sent—investigators, I suppose you could call them. Your amiable Marshal, young sir, being a most diligent worker for good, caught one and scared another two out of town. Yet another disappeared entirely. So at last,” he smiled at them all, “they sent me.”
“And you are?” asked Sir Felis in a low growl.
“I am, as I said, Arvid Semminson. A man hired to find the false thief in charge of this operation, and either force him into the Guild, with full payment of dues and fines owed, or kill him.”
“But you’re not a thief.”
“Oh, no. Never. Or at least, let’s say that I am not presently in need of anything which it would be worth my while to steal. And I have no joy in theft, as some of our weaker members have. I have stolen a few items in my time—I suppose most people have—but does it make this lady a thief that she stole a ham in Aarenis while in flight from Siniava?”
Paks was amazed that he knew about that—then remembered that she had mentioned “uncle’s” establishment to the Marshal and Ambros. The others looked at her for a moment, a little confused by the change of emphasis.
“Of course not,” barked Sir Felis. “But—”
“What I am saying, Sir Felis, is that I want this ringleader dead as much, if not more, than you do. It was obvious at once to me that the robbers we captured were not in charge. They had not been fencing caravans of goods anywhere—they were poorly dressed and dull of wit. Whoever has been running this operation is not stupid. So we all have an enemy still at large—an enemy, moreover, who knows that we know where he’s hiding—and who is responsible for his defeat. I think he’s powerful, and probably either a magician or something worse—he probably spelled those poor men to keep them in his power.”
“How would you know about that?”
“Please—I am a man of experience in the world. All kinds of experience. Why should I not know of wizardry, and the greed of those who live by it? And, for that matter, something of the evil ones, as well. I judge we must move quickly against the ringleader, before he can gather new forces. I can help you—I am a skilled fighter, and I have other skills that you will find helpful. Underground in that old keep, for instance, you would find me a good tracker, and wary of traps. If you choose to let him go, you will shortly find that he is more powerful and dangerous—even deadly—to this whole community.”
“I thought of that,” said Ambros suddenly. “I was telling Paks—if it’s a priest of Achrya, say, then we must move quickly. Every day may be important.”
“Well, we can’t do anything until the Marshal comes back,” said Sir Felis. “You can’t hope to go against anything like that by yourself, Ambros.”
“I don’t know when he’ll be back, Sir Felis. He said I wasn’t to go chasing robbers, that’s true—but this is different.”
“I don’t see that. Orders are orders.”
Ambros sat up straight. “Sir Felis, with all respect, my orders come from Gird, as well as Marshal Cedfer.”
Paks saw a gleam of satisfaction in Arvid’s eyes. Sir Felis shook his head stubbornly.
“It wouldn’t be the first time a junior officer thought he had divine guidance when he was simply aching for an adventure. I tell you, Ambros, that you’re a fool if you tackle Achrya with a thief and a mercenary for aid.” He gave Paks a hard look. “Assuming you’re thinking of going with him. I think you’re honest, but—”