“He may be Arvid’s son of the body,” the Marshal said. He sighed. “The boy tells the same tale as Arvid about the day Arvid rescued him from the Guildmaster. The boy says his mother named him Arvid for his father. That wouldn’t mean much, but his mother was a serving wench at an inn years back. The man Arvid admits to being in Valdaire at the right time, but didn’t know about a child. When the woman died, leaving the boy an orphan on the street, the Guild picked him up.”

“And you have him now,” Arcolin said.

“Yes. Fostered away from the city, but he’s in danger from the Guild. The boy is sure Arvid is his father and wants to live with him—natural enough for an orphan, but impossible. Arvid is in danger himself; besides, his … background.” The Marshal looked at Arcolin with an expression that begged for help without actually asking.

Arcolin had no idea what he could say or do, but found words coming out of his mouth before he could think to stop them. “I need to talk with Arvid anyway, because of that agreement with my junior captains. I will—” What could he promise? “I will talk with you when I have.”

“Thank you,” the Marshal said. “And—if you have no urgent errand—we might trade blows.”

“Of course,” Arcolin said. In a moment they were on the platform, and Arcolin discovered that the Marshal had better skills than most of the Marshals he’d met in the north.

“It’s having so many soldiers about,” the Marshal said when they were done. “At least a few Girdish in every decent Company, even M’dierra’s, and sparring with men who fight for a living forced me to improve past training peasants with hauks.”

Arcolin put his offering in the basin and then pulled out two Guild League natas. “For the boy’s care, Marshal. I know your grange will do its part, but—I was orphaned myself, though not so young.”

“Thank you,” the Marshal said. “I know you’re busy, but you’d be welcome at the grange any night. Any of your troops, too.”

Arcolin rode back to the northeastern quarter of the city. As he neared the Dragon, he saw Selfer walking toward it and waved. He dismounted, gave his horse to one of the boys employed by the inn, and he and Selfer entered the common room together.

At this hour, few customers were about. Selfer said, “Is he in his rooms?” to the barkeep, and the man nodded. Arcolin followed Selfer along a passage and down that to an open door. Inside, a lean, dark-haired, dark-eyed man put aside sharpening stone and rag and slid the sword he’d been sharpening into its scabbard.

“My lord, this is Ser Burin, as he’s known here, whom I told you of. And this is Count Arcolin, Ser Burin.”