“Ho, travelers—did you see aught of a man in black and—” The speaker paused. “You! You are that thief! And this must be—”

“I am not a thief,” Arvid said. “I am Arvid Semminson, come to Fin Panir at the request of the Marshal-General, and this is my companion, who will share his name if he wishes.”

“Liar!” The man, red-faced now, spurred his horse closer to Arvid. “You killed Girdish knights; you stole—”

“I killed a dwarf,” Arvid said. “I killed no knights, nor did this gnome. I stole nothing.”

“It is gone, and your horse and pack; you must have done it!”

“It” must mean the necklace. His horse, his pack? Had there been other thieves, and he had not noticed? In the meantime … “Do you see a horse and pack?” Arvid said. “If they are gone, someone stole them—it was not I, for if I had taken my own horse, I would be riding, not afoot.”

“It threw you and ran off, and no wonder,” the man said.

Arvid sighed. Girdsmen had heads like stone; facts shattered on their preconceptions. “I am not so ill a rider,” he said instead. “I left my horse in the care of your stable, and my pack hanging from a peg in a guest room. If they are gone, then they were taken by someone else.”

“Are you, a thief, accusing Girdsmen of thievery?”

“I accuse no one; I merely state the facts. If it is gone, someone else took it because I did not.”

“Where were you last night and this day, then?” the man asked.

“Last night I was in the treasure chamber of Gird’s Hall,” Arvid said. “With the knowledge of your Marshals’ council, I had baited that chamber with a sapphire and two pieces of gold. While I was there, as I had expected, the dwarf I warned Marshal Perin about made an entrance through the rock itself. He had overpowered this gnome, and stolen power from the gnome to make an entrance. The dwarf was angry and grew stone across the door I had used; the only way out was through the passage he had created. I killed him, taking this wound—” He held up his arm. “I found the gnome still alive, and he led me through the passage to the outside.”

“You trusted him?”

“I had no choice,” Arvid said. “I needed his help to get out of that place—I cannot burrow through stone.”

“He is rockfolk; he could—”

“His power was spent; I told you. The dwarf stole it.”

The man leaned forward, resting a forearm on his horse’s neck. “Let me tell you another tale, Arvid Semminson, that I think runs truer than yours. You and these rockfolk planned the whole thing. You let them into the treasure chamber, after they burrowed along; together you killed the knights in the corridor, you taking that wound you show so proudly. Then you and the gnome came out the secret passage; the dwarf meanwhile sealed the passage with rock, bespelled those who watched the necklace, and made off with it and your horse and pack, and—since he failed to meet you at the appointed place—you came trailing back, feigning innocence, hoping to escape the just punishment you deserve.”