The next morning a rumor ran through the camp that a courier had come in with news of Golden Company.
“I don’t know anything about it,” Stammel kept saying. “A rider came from Andressat. It could just as likely have been word from the Viscount. More likely.” But when they were ready to march, the Duke rode up, smiling.
“Just to make sure you get it straight,” he said, “Pliuni rebelled against Siniava’s regents and yielded to the Golden Company—” He paused while a delighted roar went up. “Aesil M’dierra is on her way south, with Pliuni and Westland troops as well as her own. If the Honeycat is in his own cities, we’ll have him in a few days. If not—well, he won’t have a warm hearth to come home to.”
Ahead of them, the Chaloquay swung sharply away to their left. The Duke led them away from the road, up across the rising ground ahead. As they climbed, they could see banks of cloud coming up from the south. Soon a thin steady rain began. Paks was glad to be walking on turf. She could not see far, through the curtains of rain, but by late afternoon they were moving downslope again, along a sheep track. Ahead she could see a river.
“It’s the same,” Stammel said. “We cut across a loop of it. Now we follow it west to Cha.” That night they camped within sight of the river, and the next day they marched beside it again. Here were low terraced hills planted to grapevines and a scrubby tree Paks had never seen before. Near the river all was cultivated, in little stone-walled plots: early grain, now a hand tall, fruit trees, neat rows of vegetables. The villages were built of stone, with tile roofs on most houses and walled yards beside the larger ones. They passed a small inn, its windows crowded with staring faces. At the edge of that village, the Clarts were holding a prisoner, a man who had tried to escape west on horseback.
“And too good a horse, my lord,” one of the riders was explaining to the Duke as Paks marched by. “He’ll be an agent of Siniava’s.” Paks caught a glimpse of the man’s white, frightened face, and his stout brown horse. She never saw him again.
The rain stopped in late afternoon. The next day was cloudy but rainless, and they marched through a widening belt of rich farmland. Beyond one village, the road was paved with great stone slabs, amply wide for the column. In the ditches on either side Paks saw the purple and yellow stars of early flowers. They looked like nothing she had ever seen. She saw more orchards of the scrubby trees. At one of the rest halts, she found an older veteran who knew what they were.
“Oilberry,” he said. “That’s what makes the best lampfuel, unless you believe the seafolk—they say some kind of sea monster’s gizzard, but I never saw any. Down here they eat the berries, or press them for oil—cook with it, and all. They ship some of it north, but it’s for rich folks there.”
“But why don’t we grow it in the north, if it’s so good?”
He shrugged. “Why don’t they grow apples down here? I don’t know—maybe they just won’t grow.”
The river curved south again. Paks wondered how far away Cha could be seen. All she knew of it was that it lay north of the river; no one in the Company had been there. About midafternoon, she heard an alarm from the Clart forward scouts. Several riders galloped back to confer with the commanders. The column armed. Paks hoped the Andressat troops would fight as well as they looked. They marched on. Suddenly Paks spotted the enemy: a small force forming a line behind an improvised palisade at the edge of a village.
Paks’s cohort had been marching left of the road. Now they wheeled and shifted farther left, allowing Andressat troops to take the middle, between the Phelani and the Halverics. Arrows flew from behind the palisade, answered by archers on both flanks. Paks heard cries from behind the piled brush and stakes. Cracolnya’s cohort sent a flight of fire arrows; most flickered out. Two seemed to catch, and wisps of smoke rose, thickening.
They closed in. Paks could see bobbing helmets behind the barricade. No more arrows. She wondered why not. Arrows from their own men whirred overhead and came down behind the brush. More yells from the enemy. Only a few yards more. She could see the helmets in retreat. The front ranks broke into a run, eager to fight. Stammel bellowed at them to halt, but several had already hit the brush and tumbled forward.
The barricade rolled into the pit behind it, and Paks could see the sharpened stakes set into the bottom just as three people fell in. Stammel cursed explosively. The rest of the front rank managed to balance on the brink. Riders leaped the pit to harry the retreating army while they lifted out the wounded. Paks was furious. Jori, the only casualty in their cohort, was lucky; he’d live, though he wouldn’t be fighting for some days. But the thought of the trap made her stomach roil. She wished the enemy had not run. She ached to hit someone.
None of them slept well that night. The camp simmered, a low rolling murmur of anger and anticipation. The next day they marched warily, eager for a confrontation, but the villages they passed seemed deserted, and they arrived before the walls of Cha without any more contact with the enemy. Paks eyed the walls with professional interest. They were nothing like Cortes Andres, for this city stood on a wide plain beside the river, just above its confluence with the Chaloqueel. Sapping would work here, she thought.
Chapter Twenty-four
Their first test of the city gates proved them to be well-defended; the army pulled back to encircle the city and organize a siege. By the next afternoon, they had constructed portable shelters to protect the sapping teams, and had them in place. Several sapping crews began work, spaced around the wall. Paks spent her time helping to set up the Duke’s camp. Like the other experienced veterans, she had been assigned a night guard slot.
Just before sunset, a rider galloped toward them from the west. Clart Cavalry intercepted, then escorted the rider to the Duke’s tent. Paks recognized a Golden Company courier. With several friends she edged close to the Duke’s tent to pick up what news she could. The rider’s horse was lathered; one of the Clarts walked it out. Suddenly the Duke looked out of his tent and glanced around at the loiterers.
“Ah—Paks.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Find Arcolin and Cracolnya, and send them here. Then take this—” he handed her a scroll, “—to Aliam Halveric.”
“Yes, my lord.” Paks was glad to run his errands, but wished the Duke had not found her idling; she had heard his opinion of nosy soldiers before. She knew where Arcolin was, looking over wood for a catapult with one of the Halveric’s sons, but she had to ask Arcolin where to find Cracolnya.
“He’s around the city, with that other sapping crew. You’d best take a horse.” He looked around, and waved to someone leading two horses. “Take my spare; he’s not been ridden today.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Paks. “And where would I find the—the Halveric?” She was not sure this was the correct form to use to his son.
“My father?” asked the young Halveric.
“Yes, sir. The Duke gave me a message for him.” She thought the younger man might offer to take it himself, but he simply nodded.
“He’s to the south, about a quarter of the way around; the sentries will guide you to the tent.”
“Thank you, sir.” The boy leading the horses had come near, and Arcolin took the reins of the black and handed them over. Paks mounted, finding the captain’s saddle very different from the ones she’d ridden before. But the horse answered heel and rein easily, and she made good time to the opposite side of the city. By the time she had given her message there and ridden on to the Halverics’s camp, it was full dark; she was careful to call her name and unit clearly when challenged. Aliam Halveric was eating supper in his tent, along with his eldest son. Paks recalled them clearly from the previous season. The Halveric smiled as she handed over the scroll.
“Ah—I remember you. I was afraid you weren’t going to give your parole, and then you made that remarkable journey—yes. Sit down; I may want to send a reply.”
Paks sat where she was bidden, on a low stool, while the Halveric read the scroll and
handed it to his son. While his son read, he finished the dish of stew before him. He cocked his head at the younger man when he finished.
“Well, Cal? I think I’d best go myself, don’t you?”
“Certainly, sir. Have you any orders in the meantime?”
“No—I expect to be back in a few hours, or I’ll send word. Get me a horse, please.” The younger man nodded and withdrew. The Halveric looked at Paks. “Well—what was your name again? My memory has failed me—”
“Paksenarrion, sir, but I’m called Paks.”
“That’s right. Paks. Do you have a horse?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then I won’t need another escort.” Paks flushed at the implied compliment. The younger man returned, and the Halveric stood, reaching for his helmet. Paks rose and held the tent flap aside as he walked out. She mounted and took the torch a guard offered. All around the city was a circle of watchfires and torches; she scarcely needed the one in her hand. At the Duke’s tent, one of his squires, Kessim, was waiting to take the Halveric’s. He raised an eyebrow at Paks when he recognized Arcolin’s horse, but refrained from comment. She grinned at him as she rode off to the horse lines.
The next three days were simple siegework in support of the sapping teams. No one knew what the Golden Company courier had brought. The captains discouraged questions. For Paks, it was an alternation of camp chores and stretches of guard duty—a routine that dulled very quickly. But her recruits thought it was exciting. They asked her dozens of questions about the techniques of sieges, sapping, siege engines—the same questions she had asked the year before. She told them what she knew, then sent them to older veterans.
On the night of the third day, Paks had just gone off-watch and was enjoying a hot drink by one of the watchfires before going to bed when an excited Volya appeared at her elbow.
“Paks—come here!” Paks rose reluctantly and stepped away from the fire. Volya was dancing with impatience.
“What is it?”
“Paks, someone came over the wall, and wanted to talk to the Count. Someone from inside the city—what does that mean?”
Paks thought a moment before answering. “It could mean they want to surrender—or some of them do. Or maybe the Count has an agent in the city, a spy, and he came out to report. I don’t think you should be talking about it—”
Volya nodded. “I know. That’s what Sergeant Kefer told me, and I won’t. I just—”
“You mean the sergeant told you to keep shut about it, and you came straight to me to tell?” Paks was suddenly angry; Volya flinched.
“But Paks, he wouldn’t mind about you. You wouldn’t tell anyone else, and—”
Paks glared at her. “Volya, an order’s an order. When you’re told to keep quiet, you do—you don’t tell anyone, friend, lover, or whoever. I didn’t get the reputation I’ve got by blabbing off to people or hanging around loose tongues. You say you trust me—fine, but how d’you know there’s not someone else near enough to hear, eh?”
Volya sounded near tears. “Paks, I’m sorry—I won’t do it again. I—I thought it was all right to tell you anything.”
“Well, now you know it’s not,” said Paks shortly. Then she sighed. “Volya, there’s more to being a mercenary than fighting and camp work. This thing of talking—you haven’t been to a city yet, so Stammel hasn’t given you his speech on it. But we don’t talk to anyone about Company business, or anything that could be Company business. Even in an ordinary year, every tavern is full of spies. If someone knows who hired us, and what road we’re marching on, and when—d’you see?” Volya nodded. “And this year—we can’t afford any loose talk. We’re almost certainly outnumbered. Our Duke will be trying to move us to the best field for battle without alerting Siniava.”
“Yes, Paks. But—the Company is safe, isn’t it? We’re all loyal to the Duke—aren’t we?”
“I hope so. Yes. But even so—you never know who might be listening. And some can’t keep shut if they’ve been drinking. Loyal as a stone when they’re sober, but everyone’s friend when they’ve got a load of ale or wine. So when you’re told to keep something quiet, you do. From everyone. Clear?”
“Yes, Paks. Should I tell the sergeant—?”
“No. You’ve had your scolding. Just remember.” Volya nodded, and Paks waved her away. She was no longer sleepy, however, and spent the rest of that night wondering about the man who had come over the wall.
The next morning it became clear that something was happening inside the city. They could see fights on the walls, and bodies thrown over. Sentries close to the walls heard shouts and the clash of arms inside. Older veterans reminded the younger that most sieges fell by treachery and dissension. Late in the afternoon, a small party offered to parley with the Count of Andressat. Paks watched as they filed out the postern: two men in long gowns and three in armor. The Count and all three mercenary captains went to meet them. They talked for some time, then bowed and separated. As the party started back to the city, the two men in gowns fell with crossbow bolts bristling from their bodies. The armored men spun around and ran for the besiegers’ lines, while a great cry rose from the walls.
Just as that disturbance quieted, a column of smoke rose from across the city, followed by more outcry.
“The sappers,” said Stammel. “They’ve fired their supports, and in a little we’ll find out whether they breached the wall.”
“Will we go in?”
“Not around there. Halveric troops are over there; they’ll go.” They listened closely until Arcolin called them into formation. Paks noticed that her recruits did not look nervous any more. She herself felt an anxiety she did her best to conceal. This was one of the Honeycat’s own cities—what sort of traps and powers might be here? But no word came for an attack; as the red glare of sunset faded from the walls, they were dismissed again. Assault in the morning, the rumors ran.
With morning came riders of the Golden Company, and Aesil M’dierra’s senior captain. He had not finished talking to the Duke when the word ran through camp: M’dierra was at Sibili, already in position with Golden Company and the Pliuni volunteers. Westland troops were at Sibili as well. Paks felt a rising excitement. She did not doubt Cha would fall, and after it the Honeycat’s home city, Sibili. Paks thought of him looking from his palace windows to see the banners of his enemies.
She squinted against the early sun and saw the city wall crowded with men. Smoke rolled up from the sapper’s work near the northwest corner of the city. Paks saw archers lean to shoot into the roofed shelter; their own archers replied. An outcry rose from the main gate tower: Siniava’s black and yellow banner sagged from its pole, slipped back toward the wall. Someone up there waved a smaller flag; Paks could not see the colors. The Count’s herald blew a long blast. It was answered from the tower, and followed by even more noise from within the walls.
By the time they entered the city, Paks had heard that a faction favoring Andressat had opened the gates. Siniava’s men still fought, but they were hampered by the factions opposing them. Despite the warning, Paks had not imagined how chaotic this could be. She soon found out. Just as they came to the first side street, a body of armed men rushed out to form a line across it. These were Siniava’s, armed with pikes. They had scarcely engaged the enemy when another band—bowmen in plain leather with a twist of blue and gold on their helmets—charged out of a building behind the enemy line and fired into the back of the pikemen. Fifteen or so fell at once, hit squarely in the back at close range. One arrow hit Paks’s shield with enough force to drive the head through; another struck someone behind her. She heard the yell, half pain, half fury. The enemy fighters whirled to meet this attack, and the front ranks of Paks’s cohort charged, trying to run them over before the archers made another dangerous shot.
Several more fights interrupted their progress to the city’s center. Twice they fought their way out of attempted ambushes. Bodies littered the streets: men, women, children, animals
, caught in the street fighting and left behind when the flood of violence passed. At last, beyond a mass of frightened people crammed into a large square, Paks caught sight of the Halveric banner.
As her cohort spread around its side of the square, a small boy broke away and darted toward the street they had left. Rauf made a grab at him and missed; Paks swung her shield across his path. He ran into it headlong, and slipped to the ground, crying. Paks sheathed her sword and reached down to help him up. She heard a cry from the crowd as the terrified boy tried to twist away from her.
“Here now, I won’t hurt you,” she said. The boy screamed, flailing at her with pudgy fists. “Stop that,” she added. He froze in her grip, staring at her with wide eyes. “Now—what did you run for? Don’t you know you should have stayed with—your sister, was it?”
“I’ll take ‘im, Paks,” said Rauf. “His sis is all upset—” But as Rauf reached out, the child started fighting again.
“I’d better—” said Paks. “Now, lad—be quiet—you’re not hurt, and you won’t be.” He calmed again, and Paks glanced around for the girl. She was standing only a few yards away, held there by a serious-faced Keri. “Let’s go back to her now, lad—and you stay with her, you hear?”
“But—but my puppy!” He choked on the words and started to cry.
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 37
