“But it may be more dangerous than I thought—”

“Danger,” Arvid said, “is my delight.”

Arcolin looked at him a long time. “I hope you’re joking,” he said finally. “That’s the kind of thing I expect from boys who want to be squires.”

“I was never a squire,” Arvid said in a more serious tone. “And I am good with danger. I will find counterfeiters before they find me.”

“I hope so,” Arcolin said.

Despite what Arvid had said publicly, he knew that it was only a matter of time before the Valdaire branch of the Thieves’ Guild penetrated his disguise and sent someone to assassinate him. As he had been on the other end of such assignments, he knew what precautions to take—and how little use they were if the assassin was truly skilled.

Yet Ifoss seemed remarkably clear of Thieves’ Guild activity. His search for counterfeiters made no headway, and his activities in the market on Arcolin’s behalf did not lure so much as a pickpocket. Perhaps the penalties dealt to the vill harboring brigands had scared them away, or perhaps the Guild had ordered a pause in their activities—which could mean assassins were about to arrive.

Despite the summer heat, Arvid never went out without his cloak and its useful pockets. He paid the Company armorer, with Arcolin’s permission, to make him a lightweight mail shirt, though it was miserable to wear in that season. He ate and drank only in company with others, and only what they ate and drank, never taking his eyes from his own mug and plate until he was through.

He was in the market, buying fresh fruit for the camp, when the first attack came. He caught sight of someone in an alley smoking a pipe … no, a short blow-pipe. It would use darts. Arvid snatched a bullwhip from an astonished teamster and snapped it in the man’s face; the man screamed and dropped the pipe. It shattered on the ground; a second man grabbed the first by the shoulders and pushed him down the alley.

Arvid looked at the broken pieces of pipe and the dark poison-tipped darts that lay beside it.

“That’s my whip, you thief,” came an angry voice from behind him. The teamster and two other men had charged after him.

“It is indeed,” Arvid said, handing it back despite the man’s red face and furious expression. “That fellow was trying to kill me. Look—” He pointed at the broken pipe and the darts.

“What’s that?”

Arvid explained. One of the other men bent to pick up a dart. “Don’t!” Arvid said. “They’re tipped with poison.” The man jerked his hand back.

“How do you know that?” the teamster asked. He had coiled the whip and looped it to his belt. “What are you?”