“I never thought about it,” Arvid said. He was suddenly hungry; the bread and honey suited him exactly. He swallowed a large lump and washed it down with ale. “What, exactly, is more dangerous than a knife in the ribs?”

Marshal Porfur sighed. “There, you see, is your problem and that of most novice yeomen. Think back, Arvid: did you not see worse than death in what happened to Paksenarrion?”

His jaw seized; he blinked and felt hot tears on his cheeks. He could not answer.

“Yes—you did. I see that you know it. But you don’t hold it in mind—”

Who could hold that in mind? Arvid glared at the Marshal, who gazed peacefully back at him and sipped from his mug.

“Gird has some plan for you,” Marshal Porfur said.

“Paks said maybe he had a plan for the Thieves’ Guild, not for me,” Arvid muttered, when he could speak.

“Or maybe both,” Marshal Porfur said. “Paladins don’t know all. You might be Gird’s instrument to reform the Guild, or those might be two different things. But right now, you need to learn how to listen to Gird—”

As if Gird himself weren’t already talking to him. Arvid hunched his shoulders, hiding his expression in his mug.

“And for that, my lad, you need an experienced Marshal to guide you. You can’t expect Gird to speak as clearly as a man, inside your head.”

“He does,” Arvid muttered, even more softly, into the ale. He reached for another hunk of bread without looking up, only to have Marshal Porfur clamp his hand to the table.

“What did you say?”

“Umm…” Lying to the Marshal was against the Code.

“You hear voices in your head? How long?”

“I don’t remember,” Arvid said. He tried to laugh, but Marshal Porfur’s expression stopped it behind his teeth.

“Before you met Paksenarrion?”

“No.” He was sure of that.

“Before her trials?”

“No … I don’t think so…”

“You hear Gird?”

“I…”

The face: a challenging expression. The voice: Well?

“Sometimes,” Arvid said, staring at the grain of the table. He could feel the heat in his face and ears; he could not look the Marshal in the eye.

Marshal Porfur let go of his hand and sighed gustily. Arvid dipped a piece of bread in honey and stuffed it in his mouth.

“That changes things,” Marshal Porfur said.

Arvid chewed, swallowed, nearly choked, then got it all down. “How? If it … if he … if there’s something I’m supposed to do, I could still be wrong. Hearing it wrong.”

The snort of contempt in his head should have been audible to Marshal Porfur, but Porfur’s expression didn’t change.