Kings of the North (24 page)

Most people would have thought the beardless one a youngster, a mere boy, and the bearded one his father or other relative. Arvid
knew better. He waved to the skinnier serving maid the next time she came by and ordered a pastry and herbal drink to round off his meal. She brought it on the same tray as the dwarves’ food: Arvid shifted a little to face more away from that table and pretended to be absorbed in watching the more buxom serving maid flirt with a tableful of merchants across the room.

A dwarf thief and a
kteknik
gnome—and not a dwarf from Vérella, because he knew every dwarf thief in the Vérella chapter of the Thieves’ Guild—would not be here in Fin Panir for anything less than business. Drawn by rumor or on assignment? Arvid considered what he knew of Fin Panir from both previous visits and Thieves’ Guild intelligence. Only one prize seemed worth the risk: that necklace—the one the Marshal-General thought might be part of a set of royal regalia.

After a few minutes, the sounds of eating behind him—dwarves were notoriously noisy eaters—slowed and the two began to talk. Arvid missed the first, as the merchants finally stood to leave, scraping chairs on the floor and paying loud, slightly drunken compliments to the serving maid, the landlord, and the room at large. He watched the maid sashay to the bar, grinning over her shoulder before she dropped her tip into the box.

At last he could hear the two behind him. They spoke low, in the language of rockbrothers.

“I tell you,
we
did not make it.” That was the gnome, Arvid was sure by the timbre of his voice.

“Nor we.” The dwarf cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “But the elves say—”

“The elves care nothing for truth.” The gnome, though wearing blue and green instead of sober gray, had not lost the gnomish accent. “Perhaps they made it, perhaps not. The question is, what should be done?”

The buxom serving maid came by with a full pitcher of summerwine and Arvid’s herbal drink; she set it on the table, and he winked at her. Behind him, he heard the pitcher being set on the table, a resonant thunk. The girl went back to the bar; Arvid sipped his drink.

“We take it,” the dwarf said. Arvid smiled to himself. What had promised to be a boring, hot midsummer journey now offered a delightful complication, perhaps even adventure. “And I still want to
know where the stones came from,” the dwarf went on. “Not from our mines, but where? Where are such mines, with such stones? Do we have brethren there, and if so, why do we not know it?”

“Take it where?” the gnome asked. “To whom? To whom does it belong now? That paladin?” Arvid could almost see the lift of the shoulder a gnome would give to the dwarf’s other questions.

“It matters not whose it was,” the dwarf said. “But the stones—”

“Not from your mountains, not from our hills; beyond that does not matter.”

Arvid risked a casual glance all around the common room, including the table where the rockfolk talked; they were ignoring him, leaning across the table to talk to each other.

“Nor the Westmounts,” the dwarf said, counting out the ranges on his thick fingers. “Nor the red rocks of far Kolobia, nor the gray rocks within sight of there.”

“So far it does not matter,” the gnome said again, impatient now. “But there is something … the rock sings trouble.”

“Indeed it does,” the dwarf agreed. “But it might also sing profit. Trouble and profit go oft together.”

“You are greedy,” the gnome said.

“I am not,” the dwarf said. “But if gold falls into my hand, I will not let it slide through my fingers.”

“If it is not your gold—”

“All the better.” The dwarf grinned. “Is it not obvious that the Girdish do not need that necklace? It came to them by thievery, after all—contaminating their paladin-candidate that a thief gave it to her. We serve her reputation by taking it away, that reminder of her impurity.”

“We cannot keep it!” the gnome said. “It is not ours; we neither made it nor bought it!”

Arvid had heard enough. Checking the hang of his sword, he rose and without hurry moved to their table. “Excuse me.” He put his hand flat on the table between them. The dwarf should recognize the small tattoo on his thumb web. “Arvid Semminson, of Tsaia. It would be impolite to conceal from rockbrethren my fluent command of their speech, and perhaps by so doing discover that of their plans they would prefer not to have revealed.” He smiled, showing very human
teeth; rockfolk noticed such things. They would smell the metal of his sword and dagger and the hidden blades he wore here and there about his person as well. Good steel. Excellent steel. They would know the ore from which it had been forged.

“You are that thief who brought her out alive,” the gnome said, recovering first.

“I am no thief,” Arvid said, without heat and still in their tongue. “It is true I am in the Thieves’ Guild, and of some consequence there—”

“It is said you saved her life.”

“No. The gods saved her life; I but saw her carried to safety.”

“You killed the accuser.”

“That I did, but killing is not thievery.”

“Of breath it is,” murmured the gnome, but the dwarf shook his head.

“To kill one bent on murder is not murder,” he said. He smiled up at Arvid. “Would you drink with us?”

“I would sit with you, but not drink; I have had what I can hold, and still do what needs doing this night.”

Arvid felt the tension rise; the two nodded, however, and he pulled the chair from his own table to theirs. “You heard us speak of a necklace,” the gnome said. “You have knowledge of it?”

“Little,” Arvid said. “That lair was full of things, large and small, valuable and worthless. I found it; I gave it to her.”

“Her. The paladin?”

“Yes; she was but a mercenary then.”

“Why? Were you besotted?”

“It was a whim,” Arvid said. He leaned back in his chair. “Clear to see she’d been born poor, and a mercenary doesn’t make much. Yet she came with treasure, and no word from her mouth to explain it. Not the treasure that comes from looting burning citadels in the south. The money changer in Brewersbridge wouldn’t talk, and I had my task there anyway, no time to put hot wires to his fingers. But from one of his servants, who liked mulled wine, I heard enough to know the treasure was old and varied, from deep in some cave, mayhap. Yet she was such a simple girl, happy with a full belly of the plainest food, comfortable with woodsmen and smiths and the
like more than with the worthies of the town. Made friends with the innkeeper’s daughter. I thought I’d see what a pretty necklace given as a gift would do for her. Would she change?”

“Where exactly did you find it?” the gnome asked.

“The thing that ruled there had it,” Arvid said. “When it died, and everyone else was keening over the dead yeoman-marshal, I explored the private chambers. The thing was dead; the hoard was surely stolen goods, but we had been granted the right to the value of what we brought out, less a tax to the town. I confess—” Arvid chuckled at this. “—I did not declare the necklace, nor have it valued; I don’t know if Paks did. She had an almost gnomish attachment to law.” He winked at the gnome. “Stronger than yours.”

“I am—” The gnome stopped, confused.

“You are a
kteknik
,” Arvid said blandly. “I have met your like before. Do not worry; I feel no need to share this knowledge with others of my kind.”

“We know where Paksenarrion’s treasure came from,” the dwarf said. “Would you ask that?”

“I know already,” Arvid said, “and do not need to ask. It is no great secret, though the location of the elfane taig is not certainly known to my informants.”

“It is to me,” the dwarf said. “But we do not go there.” He paused, as the serving maid reappeared with a platter and picked up their used dishes. Another appeared with bowls of custard.

“Have the Sinyi moved back in, do you know?” Arvid asked, when she had left and the two rockbrothers had begun to eat.

“Oh, yes,” said the gnome, his voice now bitter. “They say they are cleansing the hall and we will all be invited when it is done—the Elder Folk, that is. They denied my prince’s request to send a delegation to search for any kapristi bodies, and said they would bring them to us if they found any.” He spat a small bone onto the floor.

“Ungracious,” Arvid murmured. “You were involved, were you not, in its construction?”

“In small ways only,” the gnome said. He glanced at the dwarf.

“We assayed the stone,” the dwarf said. “Declared it suitable; it was a …” He paused, then went on. “An agreement was reached between dwarf and elf, for the stone-right—”

“It was not a fair exchange,” the gnome muttered.

“It was not
your
stone,” the dwarf said. “It was ours—the king’s to give, if he chose, but he chose to trade.”

“Stone belongs to
us,
” the gnome said. “As Sertig wrought, so it should be: the rockfolk to the bones of the earth, the singers to the trees above.”

“Are you saying the king had no right—?”

“I am saying no prince would have so abused Sertig’s gift,” the gnome said. “And for a female to rule—”

Arvid cleared his throat; the rockfolk looked at him, eyes narrowed. “Rockbrothers, I am not of your kind, though I speak your language, and would not choose to hear that which might displease you later to know had been heard. Pray warn me away, or abate your quarrel.”

“Courteous,” allowed the gnome.

“Fine words,” growled the dwarf.

“So we were discussing a necklace,” Arvid went on, “of which I know but little, save that in my hands it seemed a thing of rare beauty, such stones as only rockfolk bring from the ground.” Silence, but for munching and swallowing. “And yet I heard you say it was not of your making.”

“It was not,” said the gnome. He wiped his mouth after a long swallow of ale. “Neither dwarf nor gnome, to our knowledge, brought forth the stones or wrought them into that necklace. Nor was it elf-made.”

“Surely,” Arvid said, “it was not made by men.”

“It did not make itself,” the dwarf said. “And who else might have made it, if not dwarf, gnome, or elf? Humankind it must be, but not from here.”

“From across the sea?” Arvid asked, tenting his fingers.

The two rockfolk looked at each other and back at Arvid. They said nothing.

“Old Aare, perhaps?” Arvid said, smiling from one to the other.

“I am thinking you know little and ask much,” the gnome said. “Your answers to our questions told us nothing.”

“I do not ask,” Arvid said. “I but think aloud. If not from here, or Aarenis, or across the eastern sea, or far Kolobia, or the Westmounts, then it must be from somewhere else, and the only somewhere else I can think of is Old Aare.”

“Cursed land,” said the gnome, pinching his lips after.

“We don’t go there,” the dwarf said. “The rock is nedross.”

“Mmm. So you,” Arvid said, looking at the dwarf, “would simply take the thing, if you knew where it was, and—and then what?”

“It’s valuable,” the dwarf said.

“Yes, but its value varies. Where would you sell it, if you could?”

“Why should one tell you?” the gnome asked. “What value would you return for this information?”

Arvid shrugged. “Perhaps it would not be worth your while to know what I know.” He was aware of sharpened attention. “It is not the first time I have been in Fin Panir, though it is the first time I have been invited into the Marshal-General’s own library.” The quality of their silence changed again. He smiled at them. “But come, rockbrethren, finish your meal. You have traveled far today, I’ll warrant, and the day was over-hot for those used to the shelter of stone.”

The dwarf found his voice first. “You—a thief—are invited to the Marshal-General—”

“To the library. To meet with scribes, I understand. The Marshal-General, as I am sure you’re aware, is away.” He knew, but perhaps they did not, that she would be back on the morrow.

“You know where the necklace is?” asked the gnome.

“Does that information have value to you?” asked Arvid.

A stir at the doorway; Arvid did not glance that way, but watched the gnome and the dwarf, who did.

“Aye, he’s here,” he heard from the landlord a few moments later.

Arvid smiled at the two who still had food before them. “I expect it’s my guide; I will be sleeping tonight in the Girdish headquarters. I shall hope not to see you before sunrise.” Then he turned and raised a hand to acknowledge the bearded Marshal edging his way between tables. “I’m quite ready, Marshal, if you won’t join me for a mug.”

“Thank you, no,” the man said. “Marshal Perin, that’s my name. Evening, rockbrothers.” He spoke in Common, not their tongue, and the two merely nodded. He turned back to Arvid. “You’ve a horse needs stabling, I understand?”

“Yes, if you’ve room. I’ve paid a night’s bait for him here, but since I’m moving, I’d prefer to take him along.”

“No problem. Settled?”

“Oh, yes. My pack’s just here—” Arvid plucked it from the shelf
that ran along the wall, and handed the landlord the wooden tag on a thong that proved it his.

By the time they reached the complex of buildings where the former king’s palace had once been, Arvid had told Marshal Perin about the dwarf, the apparent dwarf who was really a gnome.

“Really? He’s not wearing gray, and he’s with a dwarf; I didn’t know they did that.”

“He’s a
kteknik,
” Arvid said. “A spy. It’s his punishment for something he did in his own tribe—Aldonfulk, he said.”

Marshal Perin scowled. “They punish their people by making them spies?”

“For some crimes, yes. Service to the prince, it’s called. He can’t wear his tribe’s uniform—”

“They’re all just gray, aren’t they?”

Arvid sighed to himself. “Not quite, Marshal. They’re all gray or black, but each princedom has a uniform—it may be the lay of the collar, the buttons, the cuffs—and it is death for a gnome to wear the uniform of another tribe, to which he is not entitled. He cannot wear his own again until his prince decides the information he brings back balances whatever it was he did. The usual thing is for a
kteknik
to work with a dwarf, because in colored clothes he can pass for a young dwarf.”