The Deed of Paksenarrion (187 page)

“Well,” he said finally, “let’s see how far we go. I would not ask haste, if it were not needed—I hope you understand that.”

“Yes, my lord.” Ammerlin looked much happier.

“About the order of march—” began Kieri.

“Yes, my lord?”

“What about sending some of the bowmen forward, as scouts?”

Ammerlin’s expression was eloquent. “Well—my lord—if you like. But we’re in Mahieran lands now—there’s no real need.”

“True, but then we’ll be used to that—when we come to other lands.”

Ammerlin chewed on this thought, and nodded. With a wave, Kieri returned to his own horse, and mounted. He watched as the bowmen got their orders and rode forward.

“That makes more sense,” said Garris at his side.

“They’re not used to maneuvering in hostile territory,” said Kieri.

Where the road was wide enough, the heavy horses went five abreast, the four ranks in front of him and the squires. Then his own tensquad (for he had explained that since they had no officer in charge, he must be near them), then the mounted infantry. Now that the bowmen rode as scouts, the pack animals were directly behind the Guard light horse. Kieri fretted, unable to see over the four ranks of large horses in front of him; he had always led his own Company, or had trusted scouts in advance.

By the time they stopped that night, at Magen, Kieri knew it would take them a full ten days or more to reach Harway on the border. Ammerlin agreed, reminding them that he had escorted the prince’s younger brother to the Verrakai hunting lodge, ten days on the road both ways. At the Marshal’s invitation, Kieri, the Kings’ Squires, and the other Marshals stayed in Magen grange, and after supper they deplored the slow progress.

“My lord, they will have plenty of time to deploy a large force—”

“I know. That’s why Paksenarrion wanted me to hurry. But they’re going to attack—large force or not—and I need the troops.”

“What about using yeomen from any grange nearby?”

Kieri shook his head. “Should I involve the yeomen of Tsaia in a battle to protect the king of Lyonya? No, if they choose to fight, I’ll welcome them—but I have no right to call them out.”

“Besides,” said Marshal Hagin, “not all granges would be much help. Perhaps the High Marshal is not aware that some granges in the east have nearly withered away?”

“No—if I’d known, I’d have done something.” Seklis scowled. “What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know. I hear things, from peddlers on the road, and that sort—and we all know about the troubles near Konhalt—and Verrakai.”

“Duke Verrakai has never been one of my supporters,” said Kieri mildly. Marshal Hagin snorted.

“I’d have put it somewhat stronger than that, my lord, begging your pardon. But he’s not as bad as his brother. That one—!”

“But my point is, crawling around the country like this, on the one good road, they’ll have time to set up an army—” Seklis bounced his fist on his chair.

“But not a very good one,” said Kieri. “What can they do at most—let’s look at the very worst.”

“Three cohorts of Verrakaien household troops,” said Seklis. “For a start.”

“Your pardon, High Marshal, but they won’t get more than two in the field this time of year,” said Sulinarrion. “I’ve a cousin who married into a Verrakaien family.” She held to that, and they considered what other forces might come: a half-cohort or so of Konhalts, ferried across the river, perhaps some local peasantry, ill-trained but formidable in numbers.

“What about Pargunese?” asked Kieri. They froze, staring at him. He went on. “The Pargunese won’t want me as king of Lyonya for several reasons. I defeated the Sagon of the west, many years ago—using someone else’s army, but I commanded. They know I will be a strong king, and they’ll have no chance to gain ground anywhere. And they hate elves.”

“But that would mean war between Pargun and Tsaia,” said Hagin. “Would they risk that?”

“If they could raid, and get back—with, perhaps, Verrakai’s connivance—perhaps not. And after all, it’s not Tsaia’s king they’re after.”

“Umm. You think Verrakai would let them through?”

“Yes—and blame the whole thing on them, as well.”

“Would the Pargunese be stupid enough to fall for it?” asked Lieth suddenly.

“You mean, what would they gain? Well, they’d not have me to deal with—and they don’t like me. And perhaps Verrakai has given or promised something else. A foothold on this side of the border? Gold? I don’t know, but just how many Pargunese cohorts could the Sagon move if he wanted to?”

“Could he move through Lyonya?” asked Marshal Sulinarrion of the Kings’ Squires.

“Not without starting real trouble,” said Garris. “We have garrisons all along the river—they’ve tried that before.”

“The Sagon of the west has eight cohorts, they say,” said Suriya. “But half of those are stationed along the northwest—”

Kieri laughed. “Yes—and I’m the reason. That leaves four—no more than two will be close enough to meet us, I daresay. So—a couple of Verrakai cohorts, a couple of Pargunese cohorts—and who will command those, I wonder?—and no more than one of Konhalt. What of Liart, Marshals? How many followers will they bring?”

High Marshal Seklis frowned. “I would have said there were no Liartians in Vérella, my lord. Yet there were. Gird knows how many are hiding in the forests.”

Kieri shook his head. “They let the rabbits run, companions, knowing they had hounds. They did not know, perhaps, that these rabbits had teeth.” The others laughed. “Indeed, my lord,” ventured Marshal Hagin, “you have the name of a fox, not a rabbit.”

“Indeed, Marshal, I shall have a name worse than that before we are done.” Kieri smiled. “But let’s take heart: though they oppose our seventy or so with their four or five cohorts, they may not suspect my own marching behind. Two against four sounds better. Despite the slow progress of our escort, I judge those heavy horses will do their work well when it comes to battle.”

“I hope so.” High Marshal Seklis let out a long sigh. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I would like to pray in the grange—”

“And I will join my prayers to yours, Marshal, if they are sent as I think.” For a moment everyone was silent, thinking of the captive by whom they were free and able to travel. This would be her second night of torment.

She woke cold and aching in a murky featureless light that made her doubt her senses. For some time she was not sure whether she was alive or dead: whatever she had expected was not this dim fog and cold. Fragments from a dream wandered through her mind: someone’s hands, warm and kind, easing her cramped muscles. A gruff voice, gentled by time, soothing her fear. But this vanished. She felt space around her, as if she were outside in an open place, but she could not see anything but fog. She blinked several times. Then she tried to move. Strained muscles and joints protested; she caught her breath, then moved again. Something soft and warm cushioned her tender head; she managed to get a hand up and felt stubbly hairs growing back in, the shape of a hood covering them, tender lumps and cuts that made her wince. Her fingers explored, found a bundle supporting her head, the cloak that covered her nakedness. When she passed her hand before her face, she could see it; at least she was not blind.

She moved her legs again. Stiffness, whether from lying on cold ground or the torture, she could not tell. But she could straighten them, and when she ran her hands where the burning stones had been, no wounds remained. Her hands moved without pain, as if the bones had never been broken. She pushed herself up, running a swollen tongue over dry lips. Distant sounds: wagon wheels, a bawling cow. Thin snow patched the frozen ground. She found the bundle that had been under her head. It was clothing—her own, torn off her by the guards. Someone had mended it crudely, sewing wooden buttons in place of the horn ones, patching the torn pieces with bits of strange cloth. Underneath it was a small packet of bread and meat, and a flask. Paks pulled the stopper free, and tasted: water, and pure. She drank it down, wincing as the cold liquid hit her raw throat. Then she threw back the cloak, and struggled into the clothes, shivering, not bothering to look at herself and notice what had and hadn’t healed. Wrapped once more in the cloak, she tried to think.

Alive, surely: she could not imagine any afterlife where she would find old clothes mended, some bruises still dark, and bad wounds gone entirely. Alive and free, outside the city by the sounds, and with someone’s goodwill by the clothes and food. She chewed a bit of meat slowly, her jaws sore. Alive, free, clothed, fed—what more could she want? She thought of several things. Warm would be nice. Knowing what had happened. Knowing where she was, and what day it was, and where the king was—all that. She staggered to her feet. Her unknown benefactor had not provided shoes or boots—she remembered that her boots had been cut away. Socks she had, but she couldn’t walk far in winter with socks alone.

Standing, she realized that she was lower than the surrounding ground, in a broad ditch or depression. The slope showed dimly in the fog. She took a couple of stiff steps toward it, glad to find she could walk at all. Something dark showed on the ground nearby. She stumbled that way, and nearly fell over the corpse.

It lay crumpled on the ground, already cold, the face like gray stone in that uncanny light. Paks stared, shaken out of her uncertain calm. Surely she should know that face. A light wind wandered through the depression, robbing her of the little warmth she’d made and stirring the dead woman’s black hair. Barra. The corpse wore red, bright even in that light: a red cloak, red tunic, over black trousers and boots. The hand still held a sword. Gingerly, Paks turned the stiff body over, wincing at her own pain. A dagger hilt stood out in its chest, another in the neck. Frozen blood darkened the tunic. Paks swallowed a rock of ice in her throat. She looked at the ground. All around the snow was scuffed and torn, stained with dirt and blood both. She touched the dagger hilts, lightly, then the sides of her own cloak. She found the thin leather sheaths where those daggers would fit.

She shuddered. No memory returned to guide her: had she thrown those knives, and killed the one who had come to aid her? But she could not believe that Barra had had that intent. Had she fought Barra? But then where had the cloak come from, and the food? A trick of the wind brought her the sound of footsteps: she froze, crouching beside the corpse. The footsteps came nearer, the steady stride of someone certain of the way and unafraid. Then a soft whistle, decorating a child’s tune with little arabesques. Then the quick scramble down the slope, and she could see a shape looming in the fog. It moved to where she had been, and called softly.

“Paks? Hell’s wits, she’s gone. And she can’t have gone far.”

Paks tried to speak, but made a harsh croak instead. At that the shape came near: a tall man in black. He carried a couple of sacks.

“There you are. I daresay you don’t remember me—Arvid Semminson?”

But Paks had already remembered the debonair swordsman in Brewersbridge who claimed to be on business for the Thieves Guild. She nodded.

He came nearer. “Are you sure you should be walking around?” His voice was less assured than she remembered, almost tentative.

Paks shrugged. “I can stand. I can’t lie there forever.” It sounded harsh even to her, but she could not think what else to say. If she was alive, she had work to do.

Arvid nodded, but his eyes didn’t quite meet hers, traveled down her arms toward her hands. “I am glad, Lady, to see you so well. But—” He held out a sack and jug. “I think you need more food and drink before you travel, if that is your intent.”

Paks reached for the jug, and he flinched slightly as her hand touched his, almost dropping it into her hands. She glanced at his face; she felt no evil in him, but he was certainly nervous around her. Again his eyes slid away from hers, flicking from her brow to her hands to her feet in their rumpled gray socks. She uncorked the jug, and sipped: watered wine that eased her throat. Then, seeking a way to relax him, she nodded at Barra’s corpse. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“It’s a long story, Lady, and you may not wish to hear all of it. But the short is that she bargained for you, to have the right to kill you, and they agreed. She would have done it, too, if I hadn’t interfered. As it was, she broke my sword: she was good. So I had to use the daggers.”

“You killed her?” Paks said. He nodded.

“I had no choice. She would not leave.” He proffered the sack again. “Here’s more food, Lady. Surely you should eat—”

Paks moved away from Barra’s corpse and lowered herself to the ground carefully. Now she could feel some of the injuries still raw and painful under the clothes—but why not all? What had happened? Arvid stood over her, and when she gestured sat down more than an arm’s length away. She took a few moments to open the sack and take out a lidded pot of something hot, another loaf of bread. Arvid shook his head when she offered it to him, and handed her a spoon from his pocket. Paks ate the hot porridge, and tore off a hunk of bread.

“Arvid—” His head jerked up like a wild animal’s, all wariness. Paks sighed, almost laughing to see him so, the man who had been so perfectly in control of himself, so offhand in every danger. “I don’t bite, Arvid,” she said crisply. “But I do need to know what’s happened. Where are we? What happened at the end?” Clearly that was the wrong question; he turned white and his hands tightened on his knees. “Where is the Duke?”

“Lady—” His voice broke, and he started again. “Lady, I was not there. I would not attend such—” He paused, hunting for a word, and finding none went on. “That filth. It was in the Guild, yes, but not all of us. Thieves we may be, or friends of thieves, but not worshippers of that evil.”

“I never thought so, Arvid,” said Paks quietly. He met her eyes then, and relaxed a fraction.

“And so I do not know exactly what happened. I know what some said. I know—I saw—” Again he stopped short. Paks waited, head cocked. He looked down, then away, then back at her and finally told it. The way he’d heard it, Paks thought, sounded incredible, like something out of a storyteller’s spiel, and it could not all be true. If Gird himself had come down and scoured the Thieves Hall, or drops of her blood had turned into smoking acid and eaten holes in the stone, surely she’d have been told about the possibility of such things in Fin Panir. She knew from her time in the Company how tales could grow in the telling, one enemy becoming two, and two, four, in the time between the battle and the alehouse. “I wasn’t there,” Arvid said again, his voice calmer now that most of the tale was out. “I had arrangements to make.” For a moment he sounded like the old Arvid, doubled meanings packed into every phrase. “We—
I
—had no intention of having you murdered in the Thieves Hall, though we couldn’t do anything before. So certain persons were ready to carry you out to safety.”