Limits of Power (56 page)

T
he inn he'd been told of was indeed downhill and to the right, handy to a grange where a Marshal and a yeoman-marshal stood in the open door talking to three men who looked like farmers. Good Loaf the inn was called, and the buxom woman who welcomed them into the common room was indeed named Pia. She wore a Girdish-blue shirt over a darker blue skirt. After establishing that Helfran had sent them, she grinned broadly and led the way upstairs to a large corner room with a window out to the yard behind. The rate seemed fair, the room clean. Arvid secured the room for a tenday. He was sure they would be in Fin Panir at least that long.

Downstairs, they ate lunch—slabs of cheese, that day's bread—it explained the inn's name—pickles, and a bowl of thin green soup that tasted surprisingly good. After that, Arvid took the boy with him back up the street to check on the horses. The Good Loaf had only four stalls, all filled, in its stable, but he planned to sell at least two of the horses anyway. Young Arvid no longer needed the beginner's mount on which he'd perched so warily, and it should sell for a good price here. They would need the money if they must live in an inn; he had no trade he could ply legally.

Their tack still hung in the tack room. Arvid pulled out currycomb and brush and went into the small enclosure where their horses were. He and the boy groomed them and tossed in fresh hay. Arvid wondered what they would bring, and whether he could sell them himself or would be required to work through a horse dealer. That brought back the memory of his first time in Fin Panir, more than a year before, when he'd found his stolen horse in a market in the low end of the city.

“Will you keep them all?” the boy asked, rubbing the nose of his favorite, a bay with a narrow stripe down its face.

“I can't,” Arvid said. “I don't have enough money to feed them. I must sell at least two, possibly all.”

“Rowan would pull a cart, I'm certain,” the boy said, as the horse butted his chest.

“If we had a cart,” Arvid said. “Lad, I know you like that horse, but…” He thought of his favorite mount, stolen from him twice, recovered only once, and somewhere in Aarenis now with another owner who might not even know the horse had been stolen. He'd looked, in the Valdaire horse markets, on the off chance but hadn't found him.

“Maybe the Marshal-General needs horses,” the boy said. “Then I could come pet him.”

“You're back.” It was Helfran, this time with a truss of hay. He tossed it into the enclosure. “Find the Loaf all right?”

“Yes,” Arvid said. “We have a room there. I'm wondering about the horses. Now we're here, we don't need all four, and there's no stable room at the inn.”

“If you're staying, they could go out on the common meadows. Rough grazing, but there's a hand of watchers to keep trouble away.

“I don't know how long we'll stay, exactly,” Arvid said. “Can they bide here overnight?”

“Oh, surely. That's never a problem, one night. You've brushed 'em out, I see—any hoof problems?”

“No.”

“Well, then. They'll do fine overnight, I'd think. If you come up in the morning and give a hand mucking out—do any of 'em work in harness?”

“I'm not sure,” Arvid said. “We think this one might, but I bought him as a safe ride for a novice. He's been that.”

Helfran nodded. “All these fancy horses about—knights and Marshals and such—we can always use another horse that works. Your four are well mannered, not like those down there.” A squeal and a clatter of hooves came from the last section of the paddock.

Arvid wondered whether to wait for the Marshal-General in the courtyard or go back to the inn.

“Why not show the lad the High Lord's Hall?” Helfran asked.

A shiver ran down Arvid's back. He had avoided the High Lord's Hall on that earlier visit; he still felt uneasy nearing a holy place. And yet—he had held a relic of Gird that came alight in his hand. “Why not?” he said to Helfran, and to the boy, “Come along—let's see.”

Men and women in the blue tunics of Marshals and the mail and surcoats of Knights of Gird moved about the courtyard, all clearly with a destination in mind. Some were going into the High Lord's Hall, and others coming out. Two armed men stood at the doors, like guards, but they stopped no one. Arvid and his son went in.

Light no longer flooded the eastern window, but shone through the stained glass of the south windows spreading splashes of color over the stone floor. From outside, the windows had looked dark and flat; now they glowed, even those on the north side. Arvid and the boy stood, astonished—and someone wanting to pass tapped Arvid gently on the shoulder. “First time?” the man asked.

“Yes,” Arvid said. The man wore a chain with a large medallion of Gird hanging from it and had an engaging grin.

“If I were you, with the light this time of year, I'd choose a seat up there—” He pointed to some benches along the north side. “Stay as long as you like. The place will fill up when the afternoon sessions are done.” He smiled a last time and strode off across the hall to the far side.

Arvid followed those directions, and soon he and the boy were resting on benches and watching the colors change as the light moved. “It's beautiful,” the boy whispered once, leaning close.

“Yes,” Arvid said, his throat tight. “It is.” He had no idea how long they sat there. The soft colors crept from stone to stone on the floor as the voices of those who came and went echoed around them in a confusing murmur. It was still light when someone sat down near them.

“There you are,” said the Marshal-General. “Have you been here since you arrived?”

“No,” Arvid said, shaking himself back to awareness. “No, Marshal-General, thank you. I found us a room at an inn not far away; we ate there.”

“You were supposed to have refreshment here,” she said.

“You are full, I heard, and you are busy. I thought we should take care of ourselves until you had more leisure.”

“Leisure is sadly lacking in my life right now,” the Marshal-General said. Arvid glanced at her; the corner of her mouth quirked. “That is my own fault, you understand. I agreed to this job. You will probably be more comfortable in that inn, anyway. We are crowded right now but, I hope, not for much longer. Tell me, who is this lad?” She looked past Arvid to grin at the boy.

“My son,” Arvid said. “I found him in Aarenis.”

Her brows rose, but she did not ask the details. “And your name, lad?” she asked the boy.

“Arvid, Marshal-General.” After the briefest pause, he asked, “Who built this place? It's so … so different.”

“It's very old,” the Marshal-General said. “We think it was built by those who came north long ago, but we are not sure. Are there buildings in the south that look like this?”

“No,” Arvid said. “At least, not in Valdaire or the Foss Council cities. But it's clear some buildings were built on the ruins of older ones.”

“You're wearing Gird's token,” the Marshal-General said. “That's new: did you actually take the oath?”

Arvid nodded. “In Aarenis … things happened.” He gathered his courage. “Marshal-General, when Gird talks to you, when Gird first talked to you, did you think you were crazy?”

This time her brows rose higher; he could hear the tension in her voice. “You think—you say—Gird talks to you?”

Arvid nodded.

“And what does he say?”

Arvid began with the first time, there on the cold ground, keeping his voice low with an effort. The words poured out in a torrent he could not stop even as the light faded and the great hall grew dim. He had not even reached the moment in Valdaire when the relic's light flared as he entered when the Marshal-General put a hand on his arm.

“Arvid—stop for a little. I must eat with a group of tedious High Marshals, and I cannot—I apologize—ask you to sit with us. But you and young Arvid are welcome to eat in the common hall, and I promise I will come to you after, and you may tell me more.” She handed him a folded cloth.

Arvid realized that tears had wet his face. “Where—where is that?”

“The kitchens, where you were before. Come, I'll take you. There's a fountain in the small garden on the way where you can cool your face and wash your hands.”

It was long after nightfall when the Marshal-General returned; young Arvid had given up yawning and now slept, slumped against Arvid and the wall behind him. “Would you rather wait until the lad's had a night's sleep?”

“It might be better,” Arvid said. “We're to come in the morning and help with mucking out.”

“I'll have someone light your way.” She called one of the kitchen workers, who seemed quite willing to take a torch and light their way to the inn; young Arvid scarcely roused as Arvid carried him.

In the brighter light and the noise of the common room, the boy's eyes flickered open. “Time for bed,” Arvid said, setting him down. “I hope you can climb the stairs on your own; I'd hate to stumble with you.”

Next morning, after a hearty breakfast—Pia was a better cook than those up the hill, Arvid decided—they walked up the hill and joined Helfran in mucking out the paddocks. They had worked scarcely a half-turn of the glass when the Marshal-General appeared. “I'm sorry Helfran,” she said, “but I must take Arvid away; he has information I need.” She turned to young Arvid. “Are you willing to stay with Helfran?”

“Yes, Marshal-General,” he said.

“Make sure he has a honey-cake at midmorning,” she said to Helfran. “Lad's been on the road a long time, and he's thin.”

“ 'Course I will,” Helfran said. “Come along, lad, and I'll show you how to harness a pony to th' cart—we'll need to haul all this out to the meadow.”

Arvid followed the Marshal-General back through the stables and then through a maze of passages he hadn't been in before, until they came to the kitchens and from there up the stairs to her office.

“Sit there,” she said, pointing to a chair padded in leather near the window. She settled herself behind a wide table and set her elbows on it. “Start from where you were: you were taking vengeance on the Valdaire Guildmaster—”

That seemed a lifetime away. Arvid took a breath and began. Gird's light in the grange, in his hand. Gird's voice telling him to save the child. More and more often, that voice, prodding, taunting, pushing him to do what he had not ever thought of doing.

“He wouldn't let me alone,” Arvid said at last. “I thought I was crazy as one of those beggars who wanders the street claiming his god tells him what will happen or that he's supposed to be king of all. Was that how it happened to you?”

“No,” the Marshal-General said. “In fact, I am not sure I have ever heard Gird's voice that clear. I could envy you, Arvid.”

“Don't,” Arvid said. “You wouldn't if it happened to you. There's no—no privacy, in my head.”

“So it's all the time?”

“No … but a sort of feeling that he's there, even when he's not talking.”

“So … you hear Gird most in a crisis?”

“Yes … but it's
his
definition of a crisis.” Arvid grinned in spite of himself. “He's … not what I thought he was. Nor the Fellowship, for that matter.”

“I expect not.” She cocked her head. “Are you miserable with the change, Arvid? Is it difficult for you?”

“It was at first, but now—not really. I missed the Guild at first—but it's different, having friends who I'm sure aren't going to stab me in the back.”

She folded her hands, nodding. “Your situation's unusual, as I expect your Marshal Porfur told you. Most Girdsmen never hear Gird's voice; most do their best to follow the Code and obey the Marshal of their local grange. Marshals do their best to teach the Code and be good leaders, make good decisions. All that without hearing anything direct from Gird. It does happen; we know it's not just crazy people who hear the gods' voices. But it's rare. Which means, Arvid, you're rare, and Gird or another god has something in mind for you.”

“It frightens me.”

“I don't doubt it. But you were brave and—in your way—honorable before this came to you, and I believe you will do whatever it is with the same courage and honor.”

“A thief's courage? A thief's honor?”

“No. Yours. Your innate qualities. A good horse can be used by an evil rider—it's not the horse that's evil. From what you tell me, something in you from childhood belonged more to good than evil.” She grinned. “And now you're one of us. I'm happy for you, Arvid, and hope you aren't grieving about what you lost.”

“Not much … though I'm not sure how I'm going to support my son. If he is my son.”

“Fatherhood is more than a squirt of spunk,” the Marshal-General said, shocking him out of any protest. “Whether or not you are his father by blood, you rescued him from horror and you've cared for him since. He seems a fine lad, much as you might have been.”

“I want him to have a good life,” Arvid said, looking out the window. On this side, the old palace had a long drop to the street below, already heading down the hill.

“So do all parents,” the Marshal-General said. “If you're able, stay in Fin Panir. Let him attend the grange near the inn as a junior yeoman. He'll gain skills and friends both. When he's older, perhaps he'll qualify for the school up here if he wants, or perhaps he'll 'prentice to some craft or trade. You say he was on a farm for a while—did he seem to like that?”

“Yes, though after what he endured in the Guildhouse, he would have liked anything.”

“Can he read?”

“Not much, though he's learning.”

“Granges offer basic reading skills—that will be Marshal Cedlin, near the inn. What about his fighting skills?”