Kings of the North - Elizabeth Moon [74]
“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.”
“How many of the beardless dwarves we see are ktet-ketick-whatevers?”
“Most to all,” Arvid said. “Didn’t you know that?”
“No, I did not,” Marshal Perin said. “We did not.”
“It’s true,” Arvid said. “Young dwarves do not go out into the world until they have beards, and they grow beards early. Only very rarely will you see a true dwarf lad out with his father, and never in a large city. They’re very protective, dwarves.”
A groom came to take Arvid’s horse. He followed into the stable to see where it was stalled.
“You will be sleeping in the School dormitories,” Marshal Perin said. “You will have your own room, of course. But please do not mingle with the students. They are apt to fall on any guest or traveler and ask questions when they should be studying.”
“School?” Arvid said.
“We’re the training facility for the Knights of Gird, also paladins—though they’re housed separately—and we also have a junior school where Girdish … I suppose I must say nobles, mostly from Tsaia … send boys for whom they cannot find acceptable fosterage. Wealthier Finthans, as well. Most end up as Knights of Gird or Knights of the Bells.”
“Only boys?”
“For the younger ones, yes. For knights’ training and paladin candidates, we have both—as you must know, because of Paksenarrion.” Marshal Perin paused in the great forecourt. “Would you like to see the High Lord’s Hall?”
A little chill ran down Arvid’s back. “Perhaps another time,” he said. “It is late—”
The Marshal’s mouth quirked. “Not that late. Admittedly, the windows are more beautiful in the morning, with sunlight coming in the round one, but … I’m sorry to be blunt, but you must know that we know who you are. We honor you for saving our paladin, but … a thief—”
“I’m not a thief,” Arvid said. “Not all in the Thieves’ Guild are thieves.”
Marshal Perin smiled and nodded. “I understand. But still, you consort with thieves. Fortunate for Paksenarrion that you do, for then you were able to help her.”
Arvid shivered again. The memory of that time would not release him; he still saw her wounds heal, heard the gasps of the crowd, smelled the rank fear, felt the buffeting of those fleeing the scene. He had come prepared to ensure honorable burial for her … and she was not dead. The other one, he had killed quickly, efficiently, with the poisoned daggers he always carried.
Then Paksenarrion had wakened … alive, not crippled, and in behavior the same as she had been a few years before, when he had enjoyed playing the sophisticate with the naive soldier-girl. And said … that Gird might want to save the Thieves’ Guild. Ridiculous. He had not told that to the Marshal who first interviewed him about Paks. He wasn’t sure he’d ever tell anyone.
“I was glad to help her,” he said.
When they entered the School courtyard, cloaked in the blue shadows of summer dusk, Arvid glanced around, automatically noting ways in and out. Windows, drainpipes, gates … it would be easy, should he need to. His skin tightened. His room, one of five kept for guests on the ground floor, was small but clean and furnished with sufficient to his needs: bed, chair, table.
“The rockbrothers will try to steal the necklace tonight or tomorrow night,” he said suddenly.
Marshal Perin stared. “Necklace?”
“The one I gave Paks in Brewersbridge. They know it’s here—well, everyone with wit in Tsaia knows that.”
“But surely—”
“Guard it well this night, Marshal, wherever it is.