The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  “You are not of our fellowship yet,” said the Marshal with a smile. “Now—I meant what I said about you and Ambros riding out together. Race the horses, if you will—anyone will understand that. Ride north and east for a day or so. Wear your mail, and keep alert. If you find where the brigands are hiding out, talk to Sir Felis before you do anything. Don’t wait for my return, if you need to take action, but don’t rush things, either. Ambros will not be able to go with you on an attack; until I return, his primary responsibility must be the grange.”

  A little later, Paks rode north out of town toward the keep. Most of the houses were dark; the black horse’s hoofbeats echoed in the quiet streets. She had put on her mail shirt, and kept one hand close to her dagger.

  At the keep, torches burned at the perimeter fence and on the building itself. An alert sentry challenged her; she waited while he took her name in, and returned to escort her to the entrance. There another soldier led her upstairs to Sir Felis’s workroom, a long room with two tables littered with papers and maps. Sir Felis and Master Zinthys, standing together near one table, looked up as she entered.

  “You have an urgent message from the Marshal?”

  “Yes, sir.” Paks pulled the leather tube from her tunic and passed it over. Zinthys smiled at her, as Sir Felis, frowning, worked the paper out of the tube and unrolled it. Zinthys wore a different, but equally rich-looking velvet robe, trimmed in white fur around the shoulders. Paks noticed, once again, the graceful movements of his hands.

  “Why don’t you sit down, Paksenarrion? We have spiced wine ready on the fire—would you care for some?”

  Paks shook her head, not certain what courtesy demanded, but sat in the chair Zinthys pointed out. He moved to the one next to her, and sat down with a sigh, stretching his legs.

  “I’ll have some then, if you permit.” He hooked a potlift in the handle of a can on the hearth, and poured the wine into his mug. “Ah. These chill autumn nights make the best of wine. You should try it.” He slid his eyes sideways at her. “Or perhaps you drink only ale?”

  “I—most soldiers drink ale,” said Paks. “Wine—we had that with an herb in it, if we were wounded.”

  “Numbwine. Yes. Not as good as a potion, but good enough. But you’re hardly a common soldier now, lady, and you might find you liked spiced wine.” Zinthys poured another mug full and passed it to her. Paks took it, and sipped. Zinthys watched her, his eyebrows raised. “Well?”

  “It’s—very good.” She looked down, and sipped again. It was good, a red wine flavored with her favorite spices.

  “Have you found any trace of our brigands?” asked Zinthys.

  “No, sir, unless something I saw today—” She told him about the blazed tree, and answered his questions. She started to add what the Marshal had explained about the possible uses of such a blaze in setting an ambush, but remembered in time that Sir Felis probably already knew that. He nodded.

  “Fresh blazes. There’s that merchant from Chaya in town now—wasn’t he planning to leave tomorrow, Zinthys?”

  “That’s right. Master merchant Cobai Trav-something, and his gnome partners—”

  “Gnomes?” asked Paks, sitting up.

  “Yes. What is it, haven’t you seen gnomes before?”

  “No. I’ve heard of them—” she remembered Bosk talking about gnomes, elves, and dwarves on her first trip south.

  “Well, around here you’ll see gnomes fairly often. I’m surprised you didn’t see these at the inn today. Two of the gnome kingdoms are less than a three days’ ride from here. If you meet them, remember that they’re very strict.”

  “Strict?”

  Zinthys laughed. “They make a court judge look like a juggler, Paksenarrion. They are full of dignity, and pride, and the right way to do everything—Ashto help you if you laugh at a gnome, or fail to complete a contract.”

  “They don’t like wizards,” said Sir Felis dryly. Paks glanced at him, and he grinned slightly, cocking his head at Zinthys. Zinthys flushed.

  “It’s not that, Sir Felis—it’s that they’re so—so—” He waved his hands in the air. “Sober,” he finished. “Dead serious all the time, that’s gnomes.”

  “Anyway,” Sir Felis went on, “there’s a west-bound caravan in town now—headed for the gnome kingdoms next, and then Vérella. And if that blaze is fresh, it could mean that the brigands are planning to attack.”

  “It won’t do any good to tell gnomes,” said Zinthys.

  “No, perhaps not. But I will send word to the caravan master. Not you, Paks—” he said, as she opened her mouth. “I don’t want you to ride with this caravan—you weren’t hired as a guard. If the brigands do strike, they should leave some trace you can follow to find their lair.”

  Sir Felis agreed with the Marshal’s advice to ride out in other directions for the next day or so. Paks took this chance to look at his maps one more time, and fix in her mind the location of the ruined buildings he thought might harbor brigands.

  * * *

  The next morning when Paks went out to care for the black horse, she found the inn yard noisy and crowded. The day before she had been so excited about the blaze that she hardly noticed the new arrivals. Now teamsters were hitching teams of heavy mules to wagons. Paks realized that the short fellows she’d dismissed as someone’s boys were actually not human—gnomes, she assumed. They were not so stout as the dwarves she’d seen; they wore plain clothes of gray and brown. Sevri merely nodded to her, darting quickly from one stall to another as she finished her morning’s work. Paks decided to eat breakfast at the inn, after feeding the horses, so that she could watch the caravan leave.

  It was not nearly so large as the one she had been with in Aarenis: seven wagons loaded with barrels and bales, with two guards besides the driver on each. The merchants—a blond human and two gnomes in sober colors but richer cloth than the gnome teamsters—rode saddle mules. Paks noticed that none of the gnomes smiled, though the human merchant grinned a farewell to Hebbinford, and promised to bring a barrel of “Marrakai red” on the way back. She went on with her breakfast, and was just washing down the last crumbs of it when Ambros appeared outside. She leaned out the window and called to him.

  “I thought I’d come here,” he said, dismounting. “If we’re riding east today—”

  “Just a moment—” Paks gestured to Hebbinford, who came to take her coins. “I know I’m late, but I thought I’d have time to breakfast before work today.”

  “Don’t rush.” Ambros did not seem in any hurry. “Shall I saddle your horse for you?”

  “No. I don’t know how he’d behave.” Paks hurried up to her room, remembering the Marshal’s injunction to wear mail every day. She was startled to see the black-clad man lounging in the upper passage. Had he been trying her door? But he smiled and nodded, as if glad to see her. Paks unlocked her door thoughtfully and latched it behind her. Everything seemed to be in place. She donned the lightweight mail the elfane taig had given her, pulled her shirt back over it, and caught up her old cloak. With that rolled into a bundle under her arm, she came back into the passage, and found it empty. She had heard no footsteps passing.

  By the time she was back downstairs, Ambros had led his horse into the inn yard. He was munching a hot pastry, and grinned at her as she went into the stable. Sevri was busily cleaning out stalls; Paks thought of telling her about the black-clad man, but decided against it. She saddled the black horse without trouble, led it into the yard, and mounted. Ambros swung into his own saddle and they rode out, turning right onto the east road.

  “How far out this way have you ridden?” he asked.

  “Not very. I came in this way—on a trail that joins the road from the south.”

  “I know the one.”

  “I’ve ridden that far—no more.”

  “Let’s go to the border, then,” said Ambros. Paks looked at him. He seemed happy and younger, like a child at a fair. She wondered what the life of a yeoman marshal was like.
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  “How far is that?”

  “Oh—if we keep moving, we can be there and back by tonight. Late tonight.”

  “Should we?”

  Ambros grinned at her. “Probably not. But it would be fun. I grew up near the border; I know the country. We won’t get lost, and I don’t think anything this way will bother us.”

  “Well, the Marshal said—”

  “The Marshal said ride other ways than west. This is other. By Gird, Paks, I haven’t had a day to myself since—” he stopped suddenly, and ran his hand through his hair. Paks remembered suddenly that she had not brought her helmet, and felt stupid. What good was mail, when a head-blow could kill so easily? “Anyway,” he went on, more calmly, “I don’t see that it will hurt to ride all day. If we don’t make it that far by noon, then we’ll turn back. Why not?”

  Paks wondered if he really wanted to visit his home. She did not want to ask. She wondered what Ambros would say if she turned back for her helmet. Would he think she was a coward? Was he even wearing mail himself? She tried to see, and could not tell. The mail from the elfane taig, she had found, did not jingle as her other mail shirt had; she thought perhaps good mail did not. In the end she said nothing, and they jogged on together, into the morning sun.

  When nothing happened for some time, Paks quit thinking so much about an arrow in the head, and instead enjoyed the ride. A thin haze covered the sun, thickening to a gray ceiling as they rode. Ambros frowned at the sky.

  “If that keeps up, we’d better turn back.”

  “Why?”

  “From that direction, it means rain, or even an early snow.” He sighed. “I might have known that Gird himself would shorten my leash, with the Marshal gone.”

  Paks stared at him; he looked both unhappy and slightly worried. “Ambros, what is it?”

  “I—I’ll tell you, Paks, but please don’t tell everyone. I’d hoped to—to go as far as my father’s farm. It’s been over a year, now, and it less than a day’s ride away. And I wonder if I’ll ever see them again.”

  “But if it’s that close, why haven’t you—?”

  “Because the Marshal hasn’t allowed it,” said Ambros shortly, reining his bay around to the west. “It’s been one thing after another—chores, drills, whatever. My father’s been in to Brewersbridge, of course, to the markets. My mother came once, last spring. But it’ll be spring before either of them come again. I just wanted to see them one more time before winter.” He sighed again. “It was a foolish idea.”

  “But why? I mean, just because it’s going to rain—I don’t melt in the rain, Ambros—not even in snow. How far is it?”

  He shook his head. “No. Paks, you’re not a Girdsman; I can’t explain. But I tried to go on my own, and it’s not what I should do. With Marshal Cedfer gone, the grange is my responsibility. The clouds are another warning; the first was in my own heart. We’ll go back. I pray Gird that no more will be required.”

  Puzzled, and a little put out, Paks followed Ambros back toward Brewersbridge. The clouds thickened, and soon a fine drizzle wet her face. It was not enough to penetrate her cloak. She nudged the black horse and rode up beside Ambros.

  “Ambros, do you really think Gird made it rain because you wanted to see your family?” She thought even less of Gird if that was his sort of action.

  “No, not exactly.” Ambros spoke slowly, as if more lay behind his words than he wanted to say. “I don’t know, to be honest, where the clouds came from—the High Lord may grant the wind’s keys to any he wishes, I daresay. But Marshal Cedfer did say the grange was my responsibility—even if you find the brigands, he said, I cannot fight them with you.”

  “But did he tell you not to visit your family?” Paks persisted.

  “No. I think—I think he knew I would want to go, but did not insult me by telling me my duty.” Ambros gave a short laugh. “He should have.”

  “But you—”

  “Paks,” said Ambros, with a look that stopped the words in her mouth. “Paks, you have been a soldier in many battles—have you ever had a dream of death?”

  She stared at him, surprised into long silence. “Not—exactly,” she said finally. “Some of my friends have—I have had disturbing dreams, though, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Have you—did you ever know someone to have a true dream like that?”

  “Once.” Paks swallowed with difficulty. She wondered what dream had come to Ambros. When she glanced at him, he was staring at his horse’s mane, fists clenched on the reins.

  “I—I saw myself,” he said softly. She could barely hear him. “I saw myself fighting—and struck—and dying. And then nothing. I know—” he said, turning to meet her eyes. “I know that all Girdsmen train for this, to fight evil to the death. But—but Paks, it was so soon. You know this cut—” He pushed back his sleeve to show a cut she had dealt him in practice the night before. “It wasn’t healed yet; I could see it, under the other marks.”

  Paks shivered violently. Ambros’s face seemed to waver, changing from the ruddy living countenance before her to the pale fixed expression she had seen on so many dead. “It was a dream,” she managed to say. “And not all dreams are true.”

  “I know.” He nodded, seeming more at ease. “I know that. But I thought—I thought I’d like to see my father and mother again.” He looked sideways at her. “Do you think less of me for that?”

  “No. Of course not.” But she felt older than a boy who had seen his parents within the past half-year, who had been home a year ago.

  “I wondered—you being a soldier, and all. You’ve seen more fighting than I have. To be honest, I’ve never faced an actual enemy.”

  Paks did not know what to say. She did not feel like boasting of her experience. She thought, as she often did these days, of her own home, and wondered for the first time if she would see her own family again. But she had had no troubling dreams, and had no fears. She smiled at Ambros, hoping to reassure him. “You fight well, Ambros, in practice; I expect you’ll fight well when need comes. I hope it is not as soon as you fear. Will you tell the Marshal of this dream?”

  “I would have, if he had not left already. Yes, he must know, in case it is an evil sending. I thank you, Paks, for not laughing at me.”

  They were back at the inn in time for a late lunch; Paks persuaded Ambros to eat with her. She had decided to show him the scrolls from the elfane taig; if she had not laughed at his bad dreams, perhaps he would not laugh at her slow reading. But they ate slowly, and it was near midafternoon when she started upstairs to get the scrolls. She had them in her hand when a disturbance in the street below brought her to the window.

  A yelling crowd surrounded a blood-stained man bareback on a fat mule. As Paks watched, Ambros erupted from the inn door, followed by Hebbinford. The crowd spotted him, ran to him.

  “Robbers!” she heard. “Robbers! The caravan!” The man on the mule slid off sideways; two men caught him, half-carried him toward the inn. Paks saw Sevri’s red head move through the crowd and take the mule by the bridle. She waited to see no more, but turned away and ran quickly downstairs.

  Hebbinford and Ambros bent over the man, who half-lay in a chair near the fireplace, his clothes torn and bloody. Paks saw the black-clad man leaning quietly against the wall behind several others, who were chattering loudly. He caught her eye and smiled; Paks felt herself blushing. Ambros glanced up and saw her.

  “Paks, good. Come here, will you?” Paks moved through the group, aware of curious glances. She had seen, from above, that Ambros commanded more of their respect than she’d thought—at least when the Marshal was away.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “This man says he was a teamster on the caravan that left this morning. They were attacked by brigands on the west road, and all the guards were killed.”

  Paks looked at the man—a stocky, darkly tanned man of medium height—and wondered just where on the west road. Ambros was asking more questions; she could not h
ear the soft answers. Hebbinford began clearing the others out of the room. Over his shoulder he said, “I’ll tell the mayor.” Paks wondered who would be sent to Sir Felis.

  With the room empty and quiet, Paks could hear the man’s replies to Ambros’s questions—hundreds of bandits, he said shakily. Hundreds and hundreds, with horses and bows and swords. They took the whole caravan, every animal and wagon, and killed all the guards, and—

  “How did you escape?” asked Ambros. “Isn’t that one of the caravan mules?”

  Paks would not have thought the dark face could darken, but it did. “I was the last wagon, sir. I heard a noise—that stretch of road has an evil name, you know—and so I cut the lead offside mule free, and—”

  “Ran for it,” finished Ambros, with the same tone Paks thought the Marshal would have used.

  “Well, I tried.” Paks watched the man’s face as he took a long difficult breath. “But that Simyits-damned son of a Pargunese jackass bucked me off, that he did. And ran away, after dumping me flat in the midst of it all. So I lay there too stunned to run or fight, and I reckon that was best, in the end. One of ‘em poked me a little, but I made shift to lie still and be quiet. I heard ‘em talking, telling each other to be sure all the guards were dead. Then they tried to catch my mule, but they couldn’t lay a finger on him, so they went off. I waited a bit—and I was some sore, too, sir—and then when I did sit up there was that damned mule not a length away, heehaw-ing at the blood smell. Then he came to me, and thank the luck for that. I counted all the guards’ bodies, sir, and so I know—”

  “What about the merchants, and the other teamsters?”

  “The teamsters are all dead, gnome and man alike. I didn’t see the merchants’ bodies, but I doubt they live.”

  “Hmm.” Ambros sounded, again, very like the Marshal. “Where was this? It seems to me you’re back soon and luckily with such a tale.”

  The man paled a little. “Sir, please! I swear it’s the truth. We left early this dawn, the landlord can tell you. And the road was dry; we made good time. Old Cobai—that’s the master—he didn’t want to stop for nooning in that stretch of woods, so we pressed on, eating on the seat as we drove. I had just finished my pickle when I heard the noise. Coming back, sir, I fair beat that mule to a lather.”