Jeddrin gave him a look that made the man step back. “Does your Duke, then, cook his own food? And will he himself read every item in the archives, should I send them?”

“N-no. He will hire scholars—”

“Even as I have done. He is a ruler; I am a ruler. I made it clear to my scholars what they were to seek, and they report to me. It might be found today, or tomorrow, or by Midwinter, or three winters after I am dead … or it might not exist at all. I wrote the Duke that if I found proof of his legitimate succession by blood from the nobles of Aare”—the words hurt as he said them, considering what he now knew about his own family—“I would tell him and publicly acknowledge it. And I will. In my family, we keep our word.” That, too, sliced his spirit, for the documents Alured sought were hidden away in the secret chamber off his bedroom, until he could decide what to do, the proof of his own lack of noble blood. “It would be helpful,” he want on, “if the Duke knew more of his parentage.”

Gray Fox Inn, Fin Panir, Fintha

Arvid Semminson, now effectively master of the Thieves’ Guild in Vérella, finished his dull but satisfying lunch and picked his teeth while watching the staff of the Gray Fox common room at their work. He had not been in Fintha for several hands of years; the Girdish realm had outlawed the Thieves’ Guild. He would not be here now, but for the Marshal-General’s invitation; the Girdish wanted to know everything he remembered about their paladin Paksenarrion. The Marshal-General’s seal on her invitation to him brought instant respect from the innkeeper, and he’d been given a table in the quietest corner of the big common room all to himself.

A heavily-bearded dwarf in typical clothing—yellow doublet over a checked shirt, green trousers, a blue hat with a red feather—and a beardless one in a green shirt over blue trousers came in. Arvid looked at the older dwarf as a servant led the two to a table near him. No clan ring on the dwarf’s heart-thumb. A chain around his neck—not gold—which might hold a Guild symbol, like his own, tucked well into that shirt. Arvid looked away, listened to a serving maid stumble through a polite greeting in dwarvish and the dwarf’s stilted but understandable Common in reply. The beardless one said nothing; the bearded one ordered for both.

Most people would have thought the beardless one a youngster, a mere boy, and the bearded one his father or other relative. Arvid knew better. He waved to the skinnier serving maid the next time she came by and ordered a pastry and herbal drink to round off his meal. She brought it on the same tray as the dwarves’ food: Arvid shifted a little to face more away from that table and pretended to be absorbed in watching the more buxom serving maid flirt with a tableful of merchants across the room.