Several of those who had been at the drill clustered at one table over mugs of ale, chatting. One caught her eye and grinned and waved. The man in black that Paks had seen the previous night sat across the room, a flagon of wine at his elbow. Two men in merchants’ gowns diced idly nearby. One of them, looking around the room, saw her and nudged the other. They both rose and came to her table.
“I’m Gar Travennin,” said the older. “A merchant, as you see, from Chaya. Could we talk with you?”
Paks nodded; her mouth was full. They sat across from her. Travennin was balding, with a gray fringe. The younger man was blond.
“We hear you came over the mountains, from Aarenis.” Paks nodded again. “I heard there was more fighting than usual down there, and no trade this year. Is that so?”
Paks took a sip of her ale. “Yes. That’s so. Had you heard of Lord Siniava?” The man nodded. “Well, he tried open war against the Guild League cities and the northern mercenaries all at once. He lost.”
“Ah . . . so. Do you think, then, that trade will be back to normal by next spring? I held off this year, but I’ve a caravan of fine wool that needs a buyer.”
Paks thought back to the turmoil in Aarenis. She spread her hands. “I can’t say, sir, for certain. I came north with a late caravan, as far as the Silver Pass, but whether they made it safe to Valdaire I don’t know.”
“Were you with a regular company?” Travennin asked as if he had heard already.
“Yes. Duke Phelan’s Company. The Duke was—much involved.” Paks was not sure how much to say; the old habit of silence held her still.
“Mmm. And why did you leave?”
Paks felt irritated; it was none of his affair. “Why, sir, I enlisted for two years. My time was up.”
“I see. You had had no trouble—?”
Merchants! she thought disgustedly. No honor at all. “No, sir. No trouble.” She went on eating.
“I heard the Duke and Aliam Halveric were much in each other’s pockets,” said Travennin, his eyes roaming around the room.
Paks gave him a hard look and returned to her meal. “Oh? I couldn’t say.”
“After some kind of trouble last year—over the pass? Some border fort, I forget the name—”
She thought of Dwarfwatch at once, and said nothing. The smell of that mountain wind came to her, and her last sight of Saben and Canna in the rain, and Captain Ferrault’s dying face.
“—do you know it?” the merchant persisted.
Paks stopped eating and slowly put both hands flat on the table. He glanced at her and froze as she glared at him. “Sir,” she said finally, in a voice she hardly recognized. “I have nothing to say about our—the Duke’s—Company. Nothing. And by your leave, sir, I’ll finish my supper in peace.” She stared at him until he reddened and pushed back his stool. She had lost her appetite. All those deaths, that grief and rage—The merchants she had traveled with had not been so crass. But of course, they had been in Aarenis during the war. They knew. Her breathing slowed; she took another sip of ale. The merchants were back at their own table, heads together. The man in black was watching her. As he met her eyes, he lifted his glass in salute and grinned. She looked away. All at once she wished she were anywhere but here. No, not anywhere, but back with the Company, laughing with Vik and Arñe, talking with Stammel or Seli or Dev. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back angrily. She drew a long breath and drank more ale.
She had thought she’d feel at home in the north; she was northern. But Brewersbridge was far from home. Maybe that was it. She thought of Vérella, thought of going straight on to Three Firs. She had money enough; she could make more show than even her cousin. She imagined her mother’s smile, her father’s scowl—but he might not be angry, with the dowry repaid. She wondered what she would tell them, and what they would ask. Her musings ended there. She could not tell them anything they would understand. They would see her as these folk did: dangerous, wild, a stranger. She started to pour more ale, and found the tankard dry. She was still thirsty. She beckoned to Hebbinford, but when he came she doubted the steadiness of her voice and asked for water. His expression approved that choice. The merchants left the room and went upstairs.
Paks drank the water and thought of what she would do the next day. She needed new clothes, at least a new shirt. A saddle for Star. She knew where the tailor’s shop was, and the leatherworker’s—if he made saddles. She would order a shirt or two, and then think about how long to stay. Suddenly she remembered the tall man the smith had felled. How was he? She was unwilling to ask the innkeeper. She picked up the pastry from a dish she had pushed aside and bit into it absently. It had been a long day.
Chapter Ten
Next morning she woke again at dawn. This time Hebbinford seemed to expect her when she padded down the stairs and out to the stableyard. There she stretched and twisted, working the stiffness out of her shoulder. When Sevri came out, they fed the horses together. Paks stopped to watch the black horse eat. She wondered what would happen to it if its master died. She imagined herself riding away on it—then wondered if she could even mount it.
The tailor, she found after breakfast, was away on a trip. “Buying cloth up at the Count’s fair,” said his wife. “He’s got a commission to make cloaks for the new council members, and has gone to buy cloth. He won’t be home for a sennight or more. But what did you need, lady? Perhaps I could serve?”
“Well—some shirts, at least. I’d wanted a cloak, a heavy traveling cloak for winter.”
“Fur? I couldn’t do fur, nor does he, without it being paid in advance.”
“No, not fur. Just good warm wool, weatherproofed—”
“Plain shirts, or fancy ones?”
Paks thought of her money. “Plain. Maybe one fancy one.”
“The plain shirts I can do. And here—here’s our silks, from the south. They say you’ve been there; you’ll know these are good.”
Paks looked at the goods. The silk slid across her hands like water—she decided on a silk shirt, green, with gold embroidery on the yoke. For that, the woman said, she’d have to await the tailor’s return. In the meantime, a linen shirt—Paks explained the cut she wanted, to free her arms for swordplay. The tailor’s wife took her measurements.
“You’re as big as a man,” she said, a little nervously. “Even in the neck—”
Paks laughed. “It comes of the fighting,” she said. “Wearing a helmet every day would thicken anyone’s neck. Makes it harder to cut through.” But the woman didn’t take the joke, and only looked frightened. Paks sighed, and ordered trousers as well, of the local wool, thicker and softer than she’d found in Aarenis. The tailor’s wife knew someone who knitted for sale, and by noon Paks had ordered new socks and gloves for the coming winter.
As she came back to the inn, well satisfied with her morning’s work, she noticed a crowd round the door. She slowed. A group of men came out, carrying something on a plank. Boots, scuffed and worn, poked out from under a blanket. The tall man. Paks shivered. Marshal Cedfer, walking with the carriers, nodded shortly to Paks as he led the group toward the grange. Paks went on to the door, staring after them.
Just inside the inn door, Hebbinford was talking to Master Oakhallow.
“—doesn’t do the inn any good,” he was saying. “And besides—Oh. Paksenarrion. Master Oakhallow was looking for you.”
Paksenarrion felt a tremor in her gut. The Kuakgan was looking at her without expression. She opened her mouth to say something about lunch, and thought better of it.
“For a simple warrior,” said the Kuakgan, “you certainly have managed to make a stir in our quiet village.” Hebbinford moved away, into the common room. Paks thought of several things to say, and decided against all of them. “You were about to eat?” Oakhallow went on.
“Yes, sir.” Paks tried to judge his expression. “But if you needed—”
“No. I think I’ll join you for lunch, if that’s acceptable.”
&
nbsp; Paks wondered what he would say if she said no. Instead she nodded, and followed him into the common room. He murmured something to Hebbinford, and the innkeeper waved them on into the kitchen. The serving wenches were wide-eyed. The Kuakgan moved to a table at the kitchen window, overseeing the courtyard, and sat down. Paks hesitated, then sat opposite him. Hebbinford brought a platter of sliced meat, a loaf of bread, and a round of cheese to the table. One of the girls brought a pitcher of water and two mugs.
“You might as well know,” the Kuakgan began, as he pulled out a dagger and sliced the round of cheese, “that you’re causing a stir. I don’t mean that dead bully, necessarily, though that’s part of it. Not your fault, I agree with the Marshal, but you were involved. Then Master Senneth, after you left his place, has had a—how shall I put it?—a complacent look. And he called you ‘lady,’ I hear. In his vocabulary, that means rich. Folk here know the Halveric Company, and most have heard of your duke. After your comments last night, to the Chaya merchants, no one has much doubt that he’s still your lord. You gave both to me and to the grange a jewel worth a knight’s ransom—apparently without knowing their worth. You walked off with a horse that the smith claimed was an outlaw.” He paused to eat a slice of cheese.
Paks was still staring at her food; she shook herself and speared a slice of meat. Put that way, it almost seemed that she’d tried to show off. She finished that slice, and tore off a hunk of bread. She had no idea what was coming, or what to do.
“Marshal Cedfer says,” the Kuakgan went on, after pouring himself some water, “that you’re uncommonly good with that sword, and also good with the short-sword—which I’d expect, where you’ve been—and also good at instructing in weapons. We didn’t expect that of one so young, a mere private. Sevri tells me you’re good with all the animals, and helpful as well. Fighters aren’t, as a rule. In fact—” Paks looked up and was caught by his dark gaze. “In fact, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, you are very different from the usual ex-mercenary. Now Kuakkganni—” He gave a slow smile that changed his whole face. “Kuakkganni have their own ways of learning things. From what I know, I judge that you’re as honest as most youngsters are, and mean no harm—not that no harm comes of it. You have some secrets rankling in your heart which must come out—and soon, I judge—if they’re not to hurt you later. But unless you choose to confide in me, it’s not my business.” Paks thought of the snowcat with a mental wince, and looked down. “Marshal Cedfer thinks you need only join the grange to be a fine addition to our town: that’s a compliment; he’s hard to please. But you’ve come to the notice of our local Guard, and the Council, and it’s best you know the eyes you have on you.”
Paks stirred restlessly. “But, sir—Master Oakhallow—why should they be so interested? I won’t be here long—”
“No? Are you sure? The simple answer, child, is that they can’t fit you into a known pattern. You aren’t one of the Count’s Guard at the new Keep. You aren’t an ordinary soldier on leave. You aren’t a Girdsman, which would put you under command of Marshal Cedfer, or a kuakgannir, which would put you under mine. You have no skill but war, isn’t that so?” Paks nodded. “And you come from war, from Aarenis, where I hear the whole land is one great bubbling stew of fighting. Where an army might come over the pass, the short way, and be on us before we could send for aid. Can you imagine a southern army up here?” Paks thought of it and nodded. “And you come with treasure—how much, only you and Master Senneth know, but I can guess. Agents carry such treasure, Paksenarrion. Agents hiring troops, or buying loyalty ahead of invasion.”
Paks stared at him, shocked. She couldn’t speak. Finally she choked out: “Agent? But—but I never thought—”
“No,” said the Kuakgan grimly. “You didn’t think. That much is obvious. An agent would think, would have acted very differently. But the Council can’t know what I know. They are concerned. So they should be. Your tale of the elfane taig, and elves’ aid, and having to see me and Marshal Cedfer, and treasure—well, it would be stupider men than our Council that could see where that might come from.” He went back to his meal. Paks sat frozen, her appetite gone, the food she had already eaten a cold lump in her belly. She watched him eat. Finally he pushed his plate away. “And on top of all,” he said, “a green shirt. With gold embroidery. I suppose you don’t know what that means?” She shook her head. “Hmmph. You must have gone straight from your sheepfarm into the Company, and straight into Aarenis from there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, child, Brewersbridge is near the border of Tsaia and Lyonya. Our local Count, such as he is, is a vassal of Tsaia. His colors are blue and rose. Green and gold are the colors of the royal house of Lyonya.”
“Oh.” Paks thought suddenly of the Halveric colors: dark green and gold. She did not even consider asking.
“I told them you didn’t mean anything by it. I assume you just like the colors? Yes. They’ll be asking you anyway. There’s a Council meeting tonight, and you’re summoned. I’ll be there, and Marshal Cedfer. You met our Master Mason the other night. Captain Sir Felis Trevlyn, the Count’s military representative, and commander at the new Keep. Probably his mage, Master Zinthys. Jos Hebbinford you know, and Master Senneth. Our mayor is Master Ceddrin, the Brewmaster. You’ll be asked for a clear account of yourself, and for news of what’s happened this past year in Aarenis.” He stopped again. Paks nodded, and he went on.
“I thought you might give a clearer account, if you had the afternoon to think about it. If there’s anything you haven’t told the truth about, you’d better be prepared to, tonight. You’ll probably be asked to submit to an Examination of Truth—”
“What’s that?” asked Paks.
“A spell. Under its influence, you cannot lie. You can refuse to answer questions, however, should you wish. The Council consented to my telling you this, because of my judgment of you. I think you have nothing to fear from the Examination or the Council, but you must expect sharp questioning: don’t get angry. If you are unwilling to come before the Council, you must leave Brewersbridge at once. You can’t go north, deeper into the Count’s lands, without Sir Felis’s permission, which you won’t get. You could go west, if you went swiftly, and were beyond the bounds by sundown. East, as you know, has its own hazards, and south is back up the mountains. And if you go, they’ll assume you’ve lied. I advise you to stay.”
“I wouldn’t have run away,” said Paks.
“Good. Jos Hebbinford will tell you what time to come. After supper. You might want to dress for it, if you can.” He stood, and Paks scrambled to her feet. “You are, you know, as welcome at the grove as at the grange.” He turned away. Paks thought of the snowcat again. Should she tell him? She wondered what he would say; she was half-afraid she knew.
By midafternoon, Paks had bathed and washed her hair. Her good shirt, mended, dripped from a line in the stableyard; she wore the ragged one in her room. She had oiled her boots, and was working on her sword belt while her hair dried in the breeze from the window. She heard boots coming down the passage, stopping before her door. She froze, and reached for the sword, where she’d laid it on the bed. Someone knocked, and called her name softly.
Paks glanced around the room, then at the door, conscious of her loose hair, the mail shirt hanging on a peg. She shrugged, and answered.
“Yes?”
“I’m Arvid Semminson, lady, a traveler also staying here. You’ve see me in the common room, in black tunic and trousers. I heard you were staying in this afternoon, and I’ve been wanting to speak with you. May I come in, or could we meet downstairs shortly?”
Paks thought of the man in dark clothes. She had no idea what his profession was, which itself made thief most likely. She thought of the Council meeting that night, and decided that she didn’t want to meet anyone privately. “I’ll be downstairs a little later, if that will suit.”
“Very good,” came the voice through the door, a mellow and pleasant voice. “I shall be honore
d to buy you a tankard of Hebbinford’s best ale, or wine, whichever you prefer.” The footsteps went away, back toward the stairs. Paks ran her hands through her hair, which was almost dry, and began to comb it. Somehow she did not feel like a fighter with hair down her back and wisping into her face. She braided it tightly, then finished her work on the sword belt. Her sword was clean and sharp, as always. She took off her trousers and looked them over. The previous mending still held. She could do nothing more for the shirt she had on. She had patched the worst rents, but the other holes and scorches remained. She had brushed and aired her cloak, but it, too, was stained and worn. The leather tunic, though bloodmarked, looked better over her shirt than nothing. She slipped it over her head, decided against the mail, and felt her boots. Still damp and oily. It would be another hour or so before they were dry. She pulled out the thin leather liners she’d worn in the high mountains, and put them on. More respectable than socks or bare feet. She strapped her sword belt on over the tunic, made sure she could get her dagger easily, and went downstairs.
Arvid Semminson had chosen a table with a good view of the stairs. He smiled as he saw her, and waved. Paks came to his table. Only one other person was in the common room, a great cheerful youth she had seen before, happily downing a tankard of ale at a swallow. He leaned on the wall behind his table, and looked half asleep.
Semminson’s clothes, Paks noticed as she came closer, were, if not new, at least unpatched and whole. By the drape of the shoulder and sleeve, the cloth was of fine quality. The belt at his waist was polished black leather, new enough that the edges had not curled; his dagger’s sheath was well-oiled and unscarred. He himself had neatly trimmed dark hair, a smooth-shaven face, and bright black eyes. His mouth quirked in amusement.
“Do I pass your inspection, lady?” he asked pleasantly.
Paks thought of her own ragged shirt and patched trousers, and reddened. “I’ve no right to inspect,” she muttered.
“No, but you were. Everyone does. I expect that. See here, lady, I’ll be straight with you—no secrets. I’m no merchant, nor mercenary fighter. Our esteemed innkeeper thinks I’m a thief, though I haven’t robbed him. That’s neither here nor there. But you, either you’re—how shall I say?—in a related business to mine, or you’re simply unaware of the situation. Either way, I can’t let such an attractive young woman wander into a trap without warning. Do you follow me?”
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 64
