Limits of Power by Elizabeth Moon
Arvid had searched both the city’s horse markets before finding the mounts he wanted for the boy and himself. All four would ride or pack; the unridden ones carried their provisions. He led all three from his own mount. The boy clutched the saddle bow as they jogged along; Arvid had bought a fleece to throw over the saddle for him.
By midday they had caught up with and passed a caravan that had lost a wheel from one wagon the day before and camped overnight. They could see its dust behind them when they stopped to eat and rest the horses. The courier knew where a rivulet ran clear and cold not far from the road. Trees fringed it, their leaves fluttering in the breeze blowing up warm from the south, but already it was cooler than in Valdaire.
The boy came off his mount more spry than Arvid had expected for a novice rider who had been in the saddle a long half-day. He walked a bit spraddle-legged for a few paces, then shook out his legs and asked what he should do.
Arvid turned to the courier. “Will we take time to unsaddle and let them roll?”
“Might as well,” the courier said. “We made a good start. Unless you want to be crowded up, we won’t stay in that inn at the head of the pass. I know a little flat place we can camp. Be there before sunsetting.”
“Suits me,” Arvid said. To the boy, he said, “Let me show you how to undo the girths, and you can help.”
He tied the horses to the line the courier strung between trees, then showed the boy how to unfasten the girths and told him to try that on the two shorter horses. He unsaddled his own, checked the back for signs of rubbing, and then unsaddled the others, handing the light packs to the boy to set down at a distance.
Explaining as he went, he showed the boy how to check the horses’ hooves for stones or cuts, how to check their backs, how to lead them, one at a time, to water and then to grass, and it felt both new and familiar. The boy was as he had seemed earlier in the year: bright, willing, intensely alive. He did what he was told with a mixture of eagerness and solemnity that tugged at Arvid’s heart, and ate a cheese-stuffed roll as they sat beneath one of the trees.
When the courier stretched and stood up, Arvid nodded at the boy. They took the horses to water a last time, saddled and packed, then mounted and were off up the trail, passing again the caravan they’d passed earlier. Now they saw caravans heading south, toward Valdaire, and the dust was thick on their side of the road. They could not move far aside, for the increasing roughness of the terrain. Arvid showed the boy how to wrap a scarf over his nose and mouth.
By the time they reached the South Trade Road in Tsaia, at Fiveway, the boy rode like an expert. Arvid avoided the inn where he usually stayed—where thieves lurked—and instead found them a room in a private home, paying for stalls for their mounts in a livery stable a short walk away. He noticed that a man traveling with his son was more acceptable than a man alone. The family welcomed them without any sign of concern.
Although the South Trade Road that led west to Fintha was less busy than the Guild League road or the road to Vérella, scarcely a turn of the glass passed that they did not overtake or meet someone coming. Most were single wagons, or pedestrians, or riders, not caravans. Arvid could not help comparing this trip to the previous summer, when his companion had been a stolid gnome determined to be no more than a servant. Instead, he had the boy—wide-eyed, much of the time, seeing places he’d never seen nor heard of. Eager to talk, eager to learn … Arvid did not mention the little cairn of stones that covered a thief’s body when they came to it. The boy, however, pointed it out and hopped off to place a stone on it for luck. “Maybe it’s a hero’s grave,” he said. Arvid did not correct him.
Arvid chose to stay on the South Trade Road all the way to Fin Panir. They camped by the road most nights, buying food in the towns but avoiding the inns with their fleas and bedbugs. That meant avoiding granges as well; Arvid knew he should be attending drill each fiveday, but after all, these small granges probably held drill only one night in five, and it might not be the night he camped nearby. Traffic diminished the farther they went, and at last the road turned north toward Fin Panir.
Arvid recognized the well he and Dattur had reached the year before. “The city’s not that far ahead,” he said. “You’ll see.” In fact, riding at a good pace, it was less than a sun-hand before they reached the south gates.
The Marshal-General’s letter wasn’t needed to clear the city gates; Marshal Porfur’s letter—impressed with the Marshal’s seal and stating “On Gird’s service for Marshal Porfur, Ifoss Grange”—was sufficient to gain entry to the city and then to the Fellowship’s precincts on top of the hill.
The Marshal-General was crossing the courtyard from the High Lord’s Hall when he rode in and glanced at him—then stopped short and frankly stared. “Is it you, Arvid? Did you find that necklace?”
“Marshal-General,” he said, dismounting and bowing. “I fear not: I was taken by the Thieves’ Guild in Valdaire and nearly killed. I am certain, however, that it went to Valdaire and on eastward from there. I suspect it is now held by the man claiming to be the Duke of Immer.”
“And you were then trapped in the South by snows, I suppose,” she said. She shrugged. “Well … if it’s gone, it’s gone.” When he said nothing, her eyes went from him to the boy, still on his horse, and then back to Arvid. “Do you have other business with me, Arvid? My pardon, but I have a meeting now—”
“Your letter,” he said, fumbling at his belt pouch. “I must return it—they took it, but I recovered it after I escaped.”
“What about your gnomish friend?”
“He is with Count Arcolin … Marshal-General, the story is long and you are in a hurry. And I have a word from Marshal Porfur of Ifoss Grange as well. But we can wait.”
“Helfran—” The Marshal-General waved to a yeoman. “See these guests have a place for their mounts and refreshment. I will see them later.”
“This way,” Helfran said. He led them into the stables to untack and loose the horses into a small paddock obviously made from dividing a larger one into three with a temporary fence. He brought buckets of water for the barrel. “We’re full up, you see,” he said. “No guest rooms in the schools, either. We’ve had more traffic this summer than two seasons past. Marshal-General would’ve told you, but she’s already late for that meeting and she hates late. First it was magery, and then that elf showed up again in the High Lord’s Hall and she had to talk to him…”
“What elf?”
“I don’t rightly know. Just some elf in fancy clothes like they wear and a crown sort of thing on his head—”
“Not the Lady of the Ladysforest, then—”
“Oh, she’s dead. Died in the spring; didn’t you know?”
“I’ve been in Aarenis.” It would not do to show his surprise. Magery? Elf from somewhere other than the Ladysforest? The Lady dead? “I thought elves were immortal,” he said. Everyone knew elves were immortal.
“Killed by kuaknom—the tree-haters, that turned evil after the Severance.” Helfran twitched his shoulders and changed the subject. “You can leave your packs in the main court until you find a room somewhere, if you want. The inns aren’t all full, just us up here, mostly. There’s a nice little inn, my brother’s sister-in-law runs it, just a few minutes down on your right, across from a grange, and I know they’ve got room because I ate breakfast there this morning. Why doesn’t she send some of ’em down here? Pia asked me, meaning the Marshal-General, and I couldn’t say except all them Marshals hang together like grapes on a stalk.”
The hint could not have been stronger if he’d outlined it in red paint. But if there was no room here, he and the boy did need a place to sleep. “How long do you think the Marshal-General’s meeting will take?”
“More’n half the afternoon, most like. Near suppertime. There’s all them Marshals in for the meeting they hold every three years … lots of meetings, that is, really. Council on changing the Code’s been at it since spring.”
“Then we
The 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
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?”