Limits of Power (53 page)

He murmured an explanation to the Marshal and told him to get help. “At least a dozen. They're very good with techniques your people don't know.”

“And you?”

“I'll distract them. Be quick.”

The unattended mule team was his best chance. They had brought a mule team for a purpose—probably to take their prisoners out of town unnoticed—so they would react to the team's movement. On the other hand, they might kill their prisoners before chasing after him—a chance he'd have to take. He picked up his cloak again, bundled it under one arm, and strolled down the lane and past the wagon.

Two of the mules swung an ear toward him; he saw that the first pair were hobbled. A quick slash of his dagger took care of that. Neither mules nor wagon bore a Guild mark; they'd been stolen, probably here in Ifoss. Arvid plucked the whip left coiled under the wagon seat and spoke in a whining country dialect: “What i' Gird's name ye're doin' here, y'rascals! Who took yeh? 'F it's that Regar, I'll have t'judicars on 'im!” Then he cracked the whip over the mules' backs; they squealed and lunged into motion, the wagon rattling behind them. Another crack of the whip, and they broke into a fast trot. Arvid flattened himself against the wall and shrugged quickly into his cloak, slipping his arm into the leather bracer he'd installed there. He took his serrated throwing disk into his left hand.

Curses from inside and hurrying footsteps. By now the mules and wagon were three or four wagon lengths down the lane, and the mules seemed perfectly happy to keep going. Ahead, the lane sloped gently down to a stream. They picked up speed.

Two thieves burst from the gate, focused on the departing wagon. Arvid cut one's throat before he was even seen; the other whirled—his blade already out—and opened his mouth to yell. Arvid threw the serrated disk; it severed the man's windpipe, but not before he'd let out the first sound, and as he fell, his sword, like the other man's, clattered on the stones.

Arvid retrieved the disk, snatched up the two swords—no time to collect the other weapons or any place to stash them—and darted back to the scant cover of the low wall. He stuffed one sword, naked as it was, into his belt, held the other between his knees while replacing the disk in its pocket, then took the sword in hand.

Down the street he saw a couple of men staring, but nothing of the Marshal and a posse. The men stood as if nailed to the ground; then one of them turned to run away, and one walked toward Arvid.

People who watched someone kill two men and then approached were not necessarily allies.

“Look out!” the man yelled, flinging up an arm.

Or maybe they were. Arvid jumped sideways, and the man on the wall, already jumping down where he'd been, stumbled on landing, off balance. Arvid made use of the sword, running it between the man's ribs before he could get up. Another man was on the wall now; Arvid backed away from it. The man who had yelled to warn him was now calling for help, and others appeared from doorways. The man on the wall snatched a small crossbow from under his cloak; the bolt, Arvid knew, would be poisoned, and this close the bow had power to penetrate.

Arvid threw the sword—a bad throwing weapon but a visual distraction—and then his wrist knife.

The thief got off one shot, badly aimed, and the knife slashed the side of his neck. He dropped the bow to stanch the rush of blood, then jumped back off the wall on the inside. Someone else, Arvid knew, would pick it up and use it better.

“They've got Regar!” Arvid yelled down the street. “They've killed Gorlin! Call the Guard!”

Now the street had come alive—more men came out of doorways, some armed. Far down the street Arvid could hear the rhythmic thud of boots that he hoped meant either the city guard or Marshal Porfur.

He'd killed three and wounded one. He'd seen five. But on a mission to a distant city, after a known thief enforcer, would they send only five? Not likely. A minimum of two triads: six. So three were still alive, only one wounded. Where was the one he'd not yet seen? Where were Regar's children? His heart contracted at the thought of the thieves taking those children.

As the other citizens approached, Arvid looked up at the house roof. Nothing. Back along the wall. Nothing … Wait … a crossbow's prod, just above the wall, swiveling to bear on him; he leapt aside as a bolt zipped past and shattered on the building behind him.

Now the others were near, yelling; the bow disappeared. He charged the gate, saw the man with the crossbow running toward Regar and two more holding struggling children, dragging them toward the back of the stoneyard. Regar's son was doing his best to kick the thief where it would hurt.

Arvid leaped for the wall to one side of the gap, pulled himself up, and jumped down onto the stacked blocks of stone. He took a moment to throw the serrated disk at the man with the crossbow; the man jerked aside and then ran to help the other two. Arvid followed, just as Regar's son landed a hard heel in a soft and vulnerable spot. That thief yelped and loosened his grip. The boy wriggled free, grabbed a stone fragment from the ground, and tried to attack the thief.

Now the others were in the entrance, tangling with one another in their hurry. Arvid ignored that but for a quick glance to be sure no one was attacking his back. Could he save the children?

Call
on
me.

Not now!

NOW.

Something blurred his sight, a flat peasant face, broad and lined, yellowed gray hair. He wanted to argue with the voice—surely it knew about the children—but the face was there, in his way.

“Gird,” he muttered. “DO something!”

The face disappeared. Regar's son's rock connected solidly with one thief's eye; the man yowled, dropped his dagger, and put both hands to his face. The boy hit him again, with a larger rock, and he went down. Meanwhile the third thief had taken one of the girls from the man who had struggled with both.

Arvid reached one of them, applied the necessary grip and force, and peeled the girl out of his grip. “Run,” he said to the girl, as he evaded a knife slash with the man's other arm and tried to position himself to force the man down. But they knew the same tricks; they had the same training, the same weapons.

“I'll kill her!” the last man warned, holding a knife to the throat of his captive. Arvid, fully engaged with his opponent, could do nothing.
DO
something,
he thought at Gird. He heard more people coming—the thud and scrape of boots, the sound of blows, cries of anger and pain. Then a cudgel as thick as his upper arm came down past his nose on the thief's head, and the man sagged. Before Arvid could shift his own blade, someone else had cut the man's throat.

“Here—” A meaty hand reached down, and Arvid took it, pulling himself up. He'd seen the man who helped him up in the grange but had never talked to him. He looked around. Regar and his wife were both unbound, alive, though bruised and scraped; Regar had a broken nose and a black eye. The bound workmen, freed, were only bruised. Regar's oldest daughter had run out the back with the two youngest; they were safe. Of the other three, the middle girl had a knife gash on the side of her neck, but she would live—the Marshal was already healing her.

All the thieves were dead. Their disappearance would hamper the Guildhouse at Valdaire, Arvid knew. With help—but the account would be laid to him—he had reft the Valdaire house of almost two hands now: the Guildmaster, the two who had taken him and Dattur away, and now these six. The Guild would want revenge, and they would take it where they could.
Gird, guard my son!

“Thanks to Gird,” Marshal Porfur said, and the other men echoed. Arvid joined in, as he must; only a few of the men looked sideways at him as he retrieved the bloody throwing disk and tucked it away.

Regar, his broken nose healed by Gird's grace and the Marshal's skill, came to give him a brother's hug. “I thought we was all dead, and the children, too. Thanks to you—”

“To Gird,” Arvid said. It came more easily from his mouth now.

“Yes, but you were the cudgel in Gird's hand this time,” Regar said. “And if you'd not been a thief before, you'd not have known how to fight 'em. What can I do—?”

“Be wary,” Arvid said. “I've brought trouble on you, and more might come, though not for a while. They'll need to hire from other houses. I'll talk to the Marshal, get his consent to leave. If I'm not here, you'll be safer.”

“But Arvid, man—”

“I'll talk to the Marshal,” he said, and with a last squeeze set Regar aside, bowed to Lia, and went to the Marshal, now organizing the men to carry the bodies away.

“Six,” the Marshal said, puffing out his lips. “They sent
six
after you?”

“They knew my abilities,” Arvid said.

“Evidently not. They should have sent twice six.”

“They didn't have twice six. Not like these.” He felt cold suddenly and shaky as the battle fever left him.

“You should eat and drink,” the Marshal said. “Come with me.” He gave a few more orders, putting one of the yeomen in charge, and led Arvid down the street to the first tavern.

I
need to leave,” Arvid said, as they crossed the threshold.

“You think you can outrun them?” the Marshal said.

“No. But I think I can lead them away from here—from Regar and his family, from you and this grange.”

“Sit down, lad.” The Marshal settled into a chair at one of the tables and waved to the man at the bar. “You've not completed your year.”

“I know,” Arvid said. He leaned forward. “But I'm a danger to you, Marshal, and to the people here, the grange. The longer I'm away from here before they come again to find me, the better for you.”

“You still don't understand,” the Marshal said. “Gird did not create this Fellowship to seek safety, but to provide protection to one another in danger. You say you're bringing trouble, but your captain says it's coming from the east, with that new Duke of Immer. There's always trouble somewhere.” To the man who approached the table, he said, “Ale, bread, and honey.”

“I am not impugning your courage,” Arvid said, when the man had left. “I just don't want—”

“To make trouble. I understand that, Arvid, and I respect it. You've come a long way from what I judge you were. Tell me: did you call on Gird in this fight?”

Arvid nodded.

“Good enough. And thanked him after. I heard. That was well done. But you should not leave without a plan, and I must know that plan.”

If the Marshal knew, he could be made to tell it. Arvid hoped that did not show on his face. Ale arrived, and a platter of warm bread and a bowl of honey. He poured ale for both of them and buried his face in his mug.

“The thing is,” the Marshal said after a long swallow of ale, “you're a grown man and an expert in your own way. So it is not easy for you to take direction, and you have worked hard to learn to work with other yeomen. But what you cannot see, that is clear to me or any Marshal, is how thin a layer of Girdishness is laid over what you were.”

“Gird seems deep enough in my head for me,” Arvid said, around a mouthful of bread dipped in honey.

“Gird needs to be here—” The Marshal pointed at his midsection. “Not just here.” He tapped his head.

True.

Arvid shivered. Not here; not now.

“You are in more danger than I am,” the Marshal went on. “In danger of more than a knife in the ribs from your former friends. Gird has chosen you for something; we do not yet know what. But when Gird or a god has chosen you for a task, then you must do it. Such tasks are not given lightly, for the gods' amusement, you know.”

“I never thought about it,” Arvid said. He was suddenly hungry; the bread and honey suited him exactly. He swallowed a large lump and washed it down with ale. “What, exactly, is more dangerous than a knife in the ribs?”

Marshal Porfur sighed. “There, you see, is your problem and that of most novice yeomen. Think back, Arvid: did you not see worse than death in what happened to Paksenarrion?”

His jaw seized; he blinked and felt hot tears on his cheeks. He could not answer.

“Yes—you did. I see that you know it. But you don't hold it in mind—”

Who could hold that in mind? Arvid glared at the Marshal, who gazed peacefully back at him and sipped from his mug.

“Gird has some plan for you,” Marshal Porfur said.

“Paks said maybe he had a plan for the Thieves' Guild, not for me,” Arvid muttered, when he could speak.

“Or maybe both,” Marshal Porfur said. “Paladins don't know all. You might be Gird's instrument to reform the Guild, or those might be two different things. But right now, you need to learn how to listen to Gird—”

As if Gird himself weren't already talking to him. Arvid hunched his shoulders, hiding his expression in his mug.