Echoes of Betrayal

  He tried to estimate time passing in his head and, at his best guess of a quarter-glass, told Medlin to blow the horn again. This time the answer was quicker and sounded closer, though no more skilled. Still just one note and not a pure one. They rode on, and after stopping again, Flanits heard running water somewhere ahead. Good—if they found the stream, they could follow that north to the River Road … once they found the Mahieran lad.

  “We’ll go on to the water,” he said. “Then blow again.” The stream, when they came to it, tumbled noisily over rocks, ice along its margins. Downstream, it curved sharply north. As they watered the horses, Medlin blew Assembly again; this time the answering horn was quicker and almost directly to their sword-side, perhaps a little behind. Flanits felt relief.

  They set off again, following the stream until it turned north. They had not gone twenty lengths beyond that when one of the troopers said, “Sir—stop.”

  “What?” Just when things were going better, Flanits thought.

  “I feel something.”

  Flanits prayed for patience. “What!”

  “Sir … there’s a Kuakgan spell around.”

  “What do you mean? A Grove?”

  “Not exactly. It’s something they can do … like a trap.”

  “And how do you know this?” Flanits booted his horse back down the formation to face Terfol, one of the replacements he’d been sent a few tendays before, when those who’d won the toss had gone back to Vérella to celebrate Midwinter Feast there. “Are you telling me you’re not Girdish?”

  “My family’s kuakgannir,” Terfol said. “I grew up that way. But Girdish, too.”

  “You can’t be both,” Flanits said.

  “That’s not what the local Marshal said, sir. He said Gird didn’t hate the kuakgannir, because Gird was an old human and they mostly were.”

  It was not the moment for a theological argument. “So … you’re part kuakgannir. Fine. Tell me what you feel.”

  “A Kuakgan’s set a snare, sir. Remember when it seemed like the trees were closing in?”

  “Yes—you’re not going to tell me they were.”

  “They might have been. A Kuakgan can herd them, you know. And they can make snares to catch people.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this back then?”

  “Because I didn’t feel it then. We were on the fringe of it, I guess. But now we’re closer in.”

  “So … are we in the trap itself?”

  “No, sir. They’re usually laid in a spiral, like a snail shell.” Terfol drew the shape on the air. “We’ve gone the other way around, so it’s not catching us. But if we go straight for the horn sound now, we’ll meet the strongest walls.”

  “And likely our squire’s caught in it,” Flanits said. “Is that what you think?” It made sense to him.

  “Maybe, sir. And if he is, he can’t get out, and we can’t get in—not without going back and entering by the right door.”

  “So we need to find the Kuakgan and tell him to open it, is that it?”

  “Yes, sir. Or her. But I don’t know where the Kuakgan is.”

  “You don’t have a feeling about that?” Flanits knew his tone was unfair, but he was tired of the endless pursuit, and Terfol’s plaintive tone eroded his patience.

  “No, sir. But if the lad’s in a Kuakkgani trap, he won’t come to harm. He’s not a criminal or anything; when the Kuakgan comes, he’ll be released.”

  “And we can all go back to Harway, maybe even in time for Midwinter buns,” Flanits said. He didn’t believe it. When things started going wrong, they usually kept going wrong. “It’s cold; we don’t know what supplies his group has; we don’t know where the Kuakgan is or how long the trap will be shut.” He looked at his troop, and they looked back. No one offered any ideas. “Is this as close as we can get?” he asked Terfol.

  “I think so, but I don’t—I never tried to get into a Kuakkgani snare, sir.”

  “We can at least give another signal, can’t we?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Flanits waved to Medlin, who blew Assembly yet again. Now the answer came—slightly closer, he thought—from their sword-side directly. They had turned a corner when they met the stream; that made sense.

  “We’ll try a hail,” Flanits said. He turned in the direction of the horn call and bellowed as loud as he could. A blurred yell came back. “Someone,” he said. “Human, and responsive, so not part of the trap.” He tried again: “WHOOOO?”

  The answer had two syllables, that was clear, but not what it was. Further experimentation with the horn proved that whoever was in the trap knew only a few of the horn signals—not, for instance, the stutter-code for spelling out words. Nor could he blow more than one controlled note.

  Frustrating. Flanits chewed his mustache again and told his troop to set up a temporary camp. Could they risk entering the trap? Even some of them? If the cub needed help … He was still pondering all this when a hail came from across the stream. A figure in a long, dark green robe with a staff hurried toward them. A Kuakgan.

  Master Ashwind wasted no time opening the trap; Flanits wasted no time on thanks but took his troop straight in on the line he had determined. Now the sounds were clearer, and soon they emerged into the clearing to find the Mahieran cub standing alone amidst the bodies of his patrol and three strangers. Blood stained his clothes, but he did not appear to be injured. And his story, which he poured out to Flanits as if he were a criminal trying to excuse his crimes, made the hair on Flanits’s body rise in horror.

  All the others were dead, and dead by Beclan Mahieran’s hand. He admitted it. He looked guilty; he kept saying how sorry he was. Fourth from the throne and a murderer? Or a traitor, concealing a Verrakai who had taken him over?

  “We’ll take care of you, young lord,” Flanits said. He tried to sound soothing, encouraging. “Get you out of this and back with your father—”

  “Duke Verrakai—”

  “She’s busy,” Flanits said. “She was concerned about you; that’s why she sent me to find you. She’ll be glad to know someone so close in succession is safe away from the war.” Something flashed in the boy’s eyes then, and Flanits suspected the worst. “Let’s be going and not waste the daylight,” he said.

  The Kuakgan was able to tell them the quickest way north to the River Road, and Flanits elected to head for it instead of back toward Harway. He did not trust either Duke Verrakai or the Kuakgan entirely, and he had in his flask enough numbwine to render the lad helpless as soon as he was safely away.

  Valdaire

  Once settled into the inn, Arvid set about gathering the information he needed as unobtrusively as possible. Dattur stayed upstairs most of the time, mending their clothes and keeping the room clean. Arvid had agreed that showing themselves as a pair in the common room was risky. In the common room downstairs a few days after their arrival, Arvid listened to the conversations around him, signaling for a refill of his mug just often enough to avoid being asked to give space to another.

  Soldiers in several uniforms crowded the room, gambling and drinking. A servant explained, when he asked, that it was payday for several of the mercenary companies, the best of times for all the inns in Valdaire.

  Arvid found himself wondering how Paksenarrion had fit into such rowdy situations. At the next table, a wiry redheaded man in a maroon tunic and a husky brown-haired woman in blue were arm wrestling, with a noisy group betting on the outcome. The bettors included those in both uniforms. Arvid recognized the maroon as Phelan’s Company—or whatever it was called now—from the north but not the others.

  Most were betting on the woman, who certainly looked to have the advantage at first, but Arvid, out of a memory of Paks, hoped the redheaded man would win.

  One of the bettors in blue said, “Heard that scumbag Gallis got hisself killed t’other day.”

  “About time. Cheated everybody, Gallis did.” The woman who answered, also in blue, spat to the side. “Who did it?”
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  “Thieves’ Guild, is what I heard. Didn’t pay his safepass, supposedly.”

  “Didn’t pay his dues, more like,” the woman said. “I always thought he was a thief himself. Who’s got his shop?”

  “Dunno. Don’t care. Heyyy!” The man shouted as the match reached a climax—the woman gaining a half finger and then the redheaded man slamming her arm down flat. The Phelani soldiers roared their approval; those in blue growled their disappointment. Coins chinked as the Phelani swept their winnings off the table. Another challenge came, but the soldiers in maroon dispersed to the bar and tables, pounding their champion on the back and offering him as much ale as he could drink.

  “Same as ever, damned Foxheads,” the woman who had lost said, shaking out her arm. “Cocky bastards. We should’ve had those barracks. We’d been promised—”

  “I heard it was because their captain thought we’d treated Captain Arneson badly.”

  The woman scowled. “It wasn’t our fault. It was the commander’s—” She stopped abruptly and glanced around; Arvid, not looking at her face, saw the grip the other blue-clad soldier had on her wrist. They moved away; other soldiers took over the table, and in moments the rattle of bone dice was added to the noise.

  Arvid ordered a plate of cheese rolls and settled in for a longer session. That Gallis’s death was being attributed to the Thieves’ Guild pleased him; that no one cared pleased him more. A busy tavern like this was exactly the place to pick up the information he needed. He filtered out friendly insults, gossip about who was bedding whom, complaints about losing a bet or having extra duty.

  The next voice that caught his attention was male, with a strong north-Tsaian accent.

  “The Captain don’t remember, either.”

  Arvid strained his ears to hear through the other voices.

  “But you—”

  “We both know it. We come through that mountain on the gnome road, and we come out a hole that didn’t close behind us. I could find it. Bet you could, too.”

  An inarticulate grunt, then: “Stands to reason somebody else knows. Besides gnomes, I mean.”

  “Somebody north? Or south?”

  “Has to be south. North side’s the gnome princedom; anybody gets off the trade road and they’ve got gnomes all over ’em, just like those that stopped us. But on this side—they just let us out and sent us away.”

  “With no memory of it, or so they thought.”

  “Right. Only we remember and the others don’t. So I’m thinking we should tell the Captain.”

  “And I’m thinking we shouldn’t.”

  Arvid had located the speakers now, two men in Phelani maroon uniforms, faces brick-red from years of campaigning here in Aarenis. Both broad-shouldered, both—when he shifted in his seat so he could see their hands busy with tankards and food—with callused, scarred hands. One almost bald, his short beard mostly gray; the other with curly dark hair silver-streaked on the sides. Automatically, he marked them for later recognition. Baldy with a broad face, pale eyes, wide crooked nose, scar from brow to jaw, just missing one eye. Curly with a long face, dark eyes, peaked eyebrows, no scars there, but a wide deep furrow in his right forearm.

  He also saw the rigidity of a pair of shoulders facing away from those two … the rigidity of someone listening as closely as he himself was listening but without the skill to conceal it. Whoever that was did not wear a uniform but, like himself, wore civilian clothes with a weather-stained dark cloak over them and a broad-brimmed leather hat, obviously wet. A traveler just in, or someone who wanted to be thought a traveler just in? Certainly, Arvid thought, someone with intent to gather information and thus most likely a spy or a thief of the Guild.

  A bar frequented by soldiers would be ideal for spying, of course. Or thieving. Which was it?

  Arvid signaled again, and the server came over. “I’m hungry, after all,” he said, “but I need to visit the jacks. Can you hold this table while I go and then bring me one of those?” He pointed to a deep earthenware dish topped with a pastry crust.

  “Indeed I can. That’s what we call a hot-pot; your choice of ham or mutton. It’s a niti, with bread and a side of winter greens.” A tiny pause, then the server leaned a little closer. “We’re almost out of the ham, and it’s the best.”

  “Ham, then,” Arvid said. “And the jacks?”

  “Through there,” the server said.

  Arvid pushed back his chair and stood; the server took a long strip of white cloth and laid it over the chair back and table. Down the indicated passage, Arvid found an arrangement he’d never seen before: a long room with a row of little stalls on either side and running water showing in the channel below.

  His trip to and from the common room gave him a better view of the two Phelani veterans but only a glimpse of the eavesdropper’s face, a shaven cheek, the gleam of an eye between the hat’s shadow and the cloak’s upturned collar. Whoever it was wore a long blade that poked out the back of the cloak. Arvid contrived to stumble over it. In a flash the man turned: for an instant, Arvid saw more—no beard, strong teeth, face wider than he’d supposed, angry expression. “Get away!” the man said. Arvid apologized with a bow; the man grunted and turned away quickly.

  When Arvid glanced at the table where the two Phelani veterans were seated, they were both watching, alert now to something that might prove dangerous. He smiled at them. “You’re in Phelan’s Company, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said the bald one.

  “Did you know a yellow-haired woman named Paks?”

  “Do you?”

  “I’ve met a Phelani veteran named Paks, yes,” Arvid said.

  “Where?” asked the other one.

  “Up north,” Arvid said, with a tip of the head. “Town on the south trade road; you wouldn’t know it.”

  “Try us,” the bald one said, his voice edged.

  “Brewersbridge,” Arvid said. “Good ale there. Better here, though. Stand you a jug?”

  “You’re a gambler,” the bald one said.

  “No. I watched that match and hoped your man would win, but I didn’t bet—” A blow caught him in the back; he staggered forward, and then a gloved hand yanked on his shoulder. The man standing at the bar, hat still pulled low, said, “You ran into me and didn’t even offer a mug, and you’re buying strangers a jug? What’s your game?”

  “No game,” Arvid said. He shrugged his shoulder out of the man’s grip. “I did not wish to annoy you further.”

  “You do annoy me,” the man said. “You come between me and them I’m—” He stopped short, pulled his cloak tight, and strode from the room.

  “You!” the barkeep yelled. “You owe—” But the man was out the door, into the cold dark night.

  “I’ll pay,” Arvid said. “I annoyed him.” He pulled a coin from his pouch. “Will this cover it?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” The barkeep smiled. “You’re lodging here, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Arvid said. He glanced back at the two veterans. “That jug of ale suit you?”

  “Aye …”

  “And a jug for these soldiers,” Arvid said, putting down another coin. As the barkeep turned away, he leaned closer to the men. “That man was listening to your talk. I even heard a few words from where I sat—there.” He glanced toward his table with the cloth still protecting it. “If this matter you spoke of is private, a more private place to talk would be advisable. It is noisy here and hard not to raise one’s voice.”

  “You heard—”

  “A little. I am not asking for more, merely giving warning that the man was listening to you with full attention—I could tell by his stance.”

  “And you created that diversion—”

  “To interrupt, yes. For my acquaintance with your former soldier Paks, I would not see her comrades spied on in such a dangerous time.”

  The two men glanced at each other, then the bald one nodded just as a serving wench brought a jug to the table. “Thank you, lass,”
the curly-headed one said. Then, to Arvid, “And thank you for your diversion and your warning. Do you know anything of that man?”

  “Nothing, and he took good care that none could see his face too clearly. When he turned on me first, I saw only a broad face—big teeth, no beard. I could not even see the color of his eyes.”

  “Hmmm.” The bald-headed man had picked up the jug but now set it down again. “I think we won’t drink more ale this night. But there’s plenty to share.” He looked around. “Vic! Come over here—we’ve a jug of ale to share.” The redheaded man who’d won the arm wrestling came with several of his friends; the bald-headed man passed him the jug. “Congratulations—but don’t drink too deep. We may have trouble on the way back, and we’ll stick together. See that everyone understands.”

  “Of course.”

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Arvid said, tipping his head toward his table, where a serving wench was setting down a platter.

  “Of course, of course,” the bald man said.

  Arvid finished his dinner just as the Phelani troops, with much laughing and jostling, paid up and left in a group. When they were all gone, one of the blue-clad contingent began a song that had the others thumping their mugs on the tables:

  “Fox in the henhouse,

  Fox in the byre,

  Fox on the run with ’is tail on fire:

  Run, fox, run. See the fox run.

  “Fox-red hair and

  Fox-pale eyes

  Might be the Duke or a king in disguise

  Run, fox, run. See the fox run.

  “Foxhead troops

  Take all they can

  If it’s gold or glory, they’re the man

  Run, fox, run. See the fox run.”

  Arvid realized that it was a jest on the Phelani and wondered what the Phelani sang about those in blue. He went upstairs, where he found Dattur curled up on one bed, seemingly asleep, and his own cloak, mended, folded neatly on the other.

  He thought of waking Dattur to ask him about what he’d heard, but he knew his companion was tired. Their bedroom, right above the common room, carried the stamping of feet and banging of mugs right through the floor as if it weren’t there. Arvid replaced his knives in the cloak pockets, hung the cloak on a hook, and lay down, falling asleep to “Cedars of the Valley.”