The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  The man’s face lighted. “I swear, yeoman-marshal, that it was not fear of the Count’s court that kept me there. Whatever the grange-court demands—”

  “Gird will have somewhat to say in that, yeoman.”

  “Aye, yeoman-marshal.” He turned to Sir Felis. “Sir, if you will, if the court demands my life, permit the grange to report the death of a yeoman.”

  Sir Felis looked at Ambros, brows raised. Ambros nodded.

  “The Marshal would say the same, Sir Felis. A yeoman may be spelled into evil deeds; I judge it was so with him, and perhaps with some others. The punishment must fall, but their names remain on the grange rolls. Only those who willingly serve evil, and refuse to repent, are cast out.”

  “He won’t tell you,” said Teriam softly, “but I will. He tried to get away more than once—we kept him until the curse softened him.”

  “I pray the High Lord’s mercy on you, Teriam, for your deeds and your confessions.”

  Back upstairs, in Sir Felis’s conference room, Ambros reddened under their gaze. Zinthys studiously ignored the others, setting wine to heat on the hearth. Sir Felis simply watched Ambros, his weathered face fixed in a neutral expression. Paks tried to see, behind that youth and inexperience, the power he had seemed to have with the prisoners.

  “Well,” said Sir Felis suddenly, as if he’d made a decision. He looked at Paks. “I say again, Paksenarrion, that you did very well. Very well indeed. I am not now surprised that your Duke recommended you for advanced training. I do not think many novice commanders could have taken over a score with a dozen, and had no casualties.”

  “I could not, without Master Zinthys’s help,” said Paks. “And your soldiers caught the stragglers.”

  “Even so,” said Sir Felis. He looked her up and down. “And you, yourself, have no injury? I see your tunic is slashed.”

  “No, sir,” said Paks. “I wear mail, of course.”

  “Hmmph. Yes. Well, then, I think we’d better have a formal report to the Council—you know the sort of thing—I’ll speak to the mayor, and I expect we’ll meet tonight. You’ll be summoned. Yeoman-marshal—” Sir Felis turned to Ambros.

  “Yes, Sir Felis?”

  “Since some of the prisoners claim to be yeomen, I will delay trial until the Marshal returns.”

  “Thank you, Sir Felis.”

  “I will not promise that it will make any difference—”

  “Of course not, Sir Felis. The grange understands that.”

  “Good. I’ll see you later, then—will you be at Council in the Marshal’s place?”

  “Yes, Sir Felis.”

  “Good. Paksenarrion, do you wish to make your own reckoning of the arms recovered?”

  “No, sir.” Paks saw no reason to distrust Sir Felis’s count.

  “Then I’ll see you later. If you’ll excuse me—” He shrugged into his heavy cloak.

  “Certainly, sir.” Paks and Ambros followed Sir Felis down the winding stairs and out to a sunny afternoon. A soldier brought their horses forward; Sir Felis had already mounted ridden off.

  They were almost back to The Jolly Potboy when Ambros turned to Paks. “Can I have a talk with you?”

  “Me?” Paks had been thinking about the report she would have to give to the Council; she dreaded it. “Of course—but what about?”

  “Come on to the grange; I don’t want to talk about it here.”

  Paks sighed. She had been up since long before dawn, and she had looked forward to a hot bath. She had not had time for more than a brief handwash before the simple lunch Sir Felis had served. But Ambros looked so concerned that she nodded finally and turned the black horse away from the inn.

  “I should have thought—” Ambros said quietly, nodding to a child in the street. “You’re tired, aren’t you?”

  “I’m dirty and stiff as much as tired. And don’t you still have to do whatever ceremony you were talking about?”

  “Oh—yes. I’d forgotten, Gird forgive my thick head. Blast. But you’ll want to see that, even you aren’t Girdish. The Marshal would want you to be there.”

  “All right.” Paks wished he’d get to the point. She saw Sir Felis’s horse and escort outside the Brewmaster’s gate as they passed.

  Once at the grange, Ambros took charge quickly. “I’ll rub down the black, and put him up—with the Marshal away, we have plenty of space. You can wash up if you want—there’s plenty of water in the scullery—and if you need any bandages or anything—”

  “No,” said Paks, abandoning the idea of a good soaking bath. “Just to get this dust off—” She took off her helmet and sluiced her head as Ambros led horses away. The cold water revived her; she wiped her neck with a wet cloth and had most of the grime off her hands and arms before Ambros returned.

  “Now,” he said, leading the way into the grange proper. “I expect the other yeomen will be here soon—they saw us ride by. What I want to know is whether you’ll come with me when I go to seek that blackweb priest.”

  “What?” Paks was completely confused.

  “Didn’t you hear him? There’s a blackweb—a priest of Achrya—somewhere in that keep. I’ve got to go and—”

  “Wait—Ambros, didn’t the Marshal tell you not to go after the brigands?”

  “The brigands, yes. And I didn’t. This is different. A true evil, Paks—something like this—I can’t let it alone.”

  “But Ambros, you’re not a Marshal. Can you fight such a thing? Wouldn’t it be better to wait for the Marshal to come back? He said to stay with the grange.”

  Ambros shook his head. “What if he moves? Now we know where he is—the center of evil for this whole area—and it’s my responsibility.”

  “What about your dream?”

  “That’s just it.” Ambros looked sober but determined. “Paks, such a dream could be an evil sending—to keep me from doing what I should. If I don’t try—for fear of dying—what kind of Girdsman am I?”

  “It could be a warning from Gird, couldn’t it?”

  “Yes—but I can’t tell.”

  “Then I think you should wait.” Paks stuck her hands in her sword belt. “Ambros, you don’t know anything about what’s there except what a robber said. How do you know he’s telling the truth? Even if he is, you don’t know enough. A priest of Achrya—very good so far. But alone? With other troops? Human or other?”

  Ambros had been pacing back and forth; he stopped. “I—see. I hadn’t thought of that. It’s your experience, I suppose.”

  “Not just that. I would go with you—but you said, the other day, that you had to obey the Marshal.”

  “I have to obey Gird. Ordinarily that means the Marshal, but—” He stopped as the yeomen who had been with Paks that morning came into the grange. Paks noticed that none of them had changed from their bloodstained clothing; she wondered why. Mal winked at her, as they all came to the platform. Ambros climbed onto it.

  What followed seemed strange to Paks. He called on each one to give an account for his own actions. After each recital, Ambros crossed his blade with the man’s weapon. When it came to Mal, the big man grinned as Ambros’s sword tapped his axe blade. Then Ambros inspected all the weapons, and supervised their return to the grange racks—for only Mal had carried his own. After that, they all repaired to the inn for a round of ale.

  Here the others who had been involved joined them. Paks slipped upstairs for a bath and change of clothes. She put on her new clothes, enjoying the feel of good cloth. It was hard to believe that she’d been in a battle that morning—she thought back to the Duke’s Company, and laughed to herself. Very different indeed. No company chores, no guard duty at night. And the others had fought well. Perhaps she could get used to having strange companions at her side—or none. Even so, she slipped the mail shirt back on and pulled her best leather tunic over it.

  She opened the door to find a girl leaning on the wall opposite. Paks recognized her as one of the junior yeomen. The girl stood away from the wal
l as Paks came out.

  “Please—lady—could I speak to you?”

  “Yes,” said Paks. “What is it?”

  “You’re a fighter, aren’t you? I mean—I know you are, but isn’t that—I mean, don’t you make your living that way?” All this in a rush.

  “Yes,” said Paks, trying not to laugh. “Why?”

  “Well—” The girl looked down, then back at Paks. She was as tall, Paks realized, and nearly as broad-shouldered. “I want to be a fighter too,” she said finally. “I—they laugh at me here, the people in town. I want to show them—the Marshal says I’m good—”

  “Umm.” Paks looked at her wrists. They were strong, already marked with training scars. “Well, I can tell you it’s possible. I did it. But—”

  “I know—I know. They say—those who saw you fight today—they say you’re good. The senior yeomen told us, too, after they’d drilled with you. I know I can do it too. But will you let me?”

  “Let you? How do you mean?”

  “I want to—to train with you. Like a—a squire, or something.”

  “But I’m not a knight.” Paks stared at her, bewildered. “I don’t need a squire—”

  “I’ll earn my way,” the girl went on, heedless. “I swear I will. I’m a hard worker, and I’ll do anything you say, if you’ll let me fight beside you.”

  “Listen—” began Paks, then stopped. She remembered too well how much she had wanted what she now had. What could someone have said to her, at that age? “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Suli—”

  “Suli, it’s not that easy—I don’t know what I’ll be doing next—”

  “You’re not going to quit fighting!”

  “No. But I don’t know when—or what—yet. I don’t even know what training you’ve got. What if you can’t—”

  “You could talk to the Marshal—or even Ambros. They know me. Please, Lady Paks—I’ll do exactly what you say. I can groom your horse, and take care of things—”

  “If you want to learn to fight, Suli, why don’t you join a mercenary company? The Halverics recruit around here, don’t they?”

  Suli shook her head. “I’ve heard about that—all marching and drill, and the same old thing day after day. I could do that here—just drilling with the yeomen. I want—” She looked down the passage as if across a field. “I want excitement. Battles. Travel. Like you’ve had.”

  Paks grinned. “Suli, I started as a mercenary. Gods above, I had as much travel and excitement as I could take. It’s the best training—I swear it.”

  Suli shook her head again. “And you left. Why should I do it at all, when it’s not what I want in the end? Please, please let me fight with you. If you don’t like me, after awhile, then you can send me away. But give me a chance.” Her eyes held a look that Paks could not name—she was flattered and disturbed at once.

  “I’ll think about it.” Paks started down the passage; Suli was at her shoulder. She started to speak, but Paks held up her hand. “No, I didn’t say yes. What does your family think about this?” She could hardly believe she had asked that. She, who knew only too well what families thought.

  Suli scowled. “My family—they don’t get along here. My dad’s a trapper. He does a bit of day work in the tannery sometimes. He’s gone mostly, expects me to take care of everything. But my brothers—they’re old enough to work, and all that. I don’t care what he thinks.”

  “Mmm.” Paks turned to the stairs. “My father didn’t want me to leave either.”

  “You see? I said we were alike. Please—”

  “Enough, Suli. I said I’d think about it.” Paks could see the others still clustered around two tables pulled together. Arvid and one of the yeomen were arm wrestling. Mal looked up and waved to her; she came to the table, aware of Suli watching her back.

  “We were wondering if you’d decided to leave us for good,” said Mal.

  “No. Suli wanted to talk to me.”

  “Oh.” Mal and several of the others exchanged glances. “Is she bothering you?”

  “Bothering me? No. She has an exalted idea of my achievements.” Paks snatched the top of a pile of fried cakes a serving girl put in front of Mal. “Good luck for you,” she reminded him; the others roared.

  “By Gird’s arm, you’re quick,” said Mal, slightly redder than usual. “I never had anyone turn that trick back on me.”

  Paks smiled with her mouth full. A tankard appeared in front of her. She picked it up and took a sip.

  “Seriously,” began Ambros, “if Suli pesters you too much, I’ll speak to her.”

  “I should speak to you, rather. She wants to train with me—and work with me. As a squire, she said—but you know I’m not a knight, what would I do with a squire?”

  “As for that, you know much more than she does. She fights well, for the little training she’s had—but she’s got no more experience in actual fights than I have.”

  “Not exactly,” said Mal. “She’s been in some rows.”

  “Brawls,” said Ambros. “That’s not the same.”

  “No, I know that. She’s an interesting girl, though.” Mal took a long pull at his tankard; one of the other men shook his head. “Seriously—she’s one of the best of the junior yeomen.”

  “As far as fighting goes—but fighting’s not all of it,” said Ambros.

  “Well, it’s the most important part, isn’t it? For Girdsmen, anyway. You know she’s not happy here, Ambros—not since Deordtya left. She wants—”

  “She wants excitement and glory,” said Ambros tartly. “She’s more apt to get a broken head. Or don’t you agree, Paks?”

  Paks nodded slowly. “I told her she should join a mercenary company for more training. I haven’t seen her fight; I don’t know what she can do. Still, I can understand—I couldn’t wait to get away from home. If someone like me had come through Three Firs, I’d have walked on fire to talk to her.”

  “I can’t recommend her exactly,” said Ambros, looking at his hands, “but I think she’d be honest and loyal. If you want someone—”

  “I hadn’t thought about it.” Paks took another fried cake off Mal’s platter. She wondered what it would be like to have a squire. The Duke had squires—she tried to imagine herself coming down that trail from the ruined wall, and someone like Suli throwing herself between an enemy and her own shield. It didn’t seem right. She was not a knight; she had never been a squire herself; she didn’t know what a squire should do, or how to teach it.

  “Many free swords travel in pairs or trios,” said Mal. “Then they have someone they can trust.” He leaned back to let the other yeomen past—they nodded to Paks and Ambros, and went out.

  “Sometimes.” Ambros shook his head. “Not always. But if you wanted to hire her, Paks, go ahead. I don’t think you’d do her any harm, and though she’s a little wild, she’ll serve you honestly.”

  “Is she a Girdsman?”

  “Well—not exactly. She’s not old enough for the final oaths, and her family isn’t Girdish. She’s sworn to the local grange only. Of course I’d rather she found a Girdish patron—”

  “I wondered about that.”

  “But you seem honest enough yourself. Master Cedfer hopes you’ll end up a yeoman of Gird.”

  “I might,” said Paks thoughtfully.

  “If it’s permitted to answer,” broke in Arvid, “I’d like to know if you found how those robbers were fencing their spoils.”

  “Fencing—?” Paks didn’t know the term. Ambros did, and looked sharply at Arvid.

  “He means, Paks, selling stolen goods somewhere—thieves call that fencing them.”

  Arvid smiled. “So do others, young sir—I see that you know the term.”

  Ambros scowled. “Indeed—honest men must learn thieves’ speech or lose by it. But to answer your question, as much as I may—no, we didn’t find out where the goods are being sent, or how.”

  “I told Paks, yeoman-marshal, that I did not believ
e those men had been thieves for long.” Arvid sipped his ale, and went on. “I know you are suspicious of me—but that is the truth. And if I’m right, then someone else is running them—taking the stolen goods, fencing them—and that person, not those poor men, is the dangerous one. Until that person is caught, these attacks will continue.” Paks saw a gleam of interest in Mal’s eyes, but he was apparently relaxed and half-asleep, leaning on the wall.

  Ambros leaned forward. “How, if Paks has killed or captured all the active robbers?”

  Arvid snorted. “How hard is it to fool poor men? How were those men trapped into thievery? As long as the world holds men whose arms are stronger than their wits or will, just so long will subtle men find simple ones to risk and die for them.” Paks thought that could have more application than Arvid intended; she glanced at him and met a sardonic glint that set her mind on edge. Ambros missed it.

  “I think, sir,” he said quietly, “that you and I—and Paks, perhaps—should have a quiet word together.”

  “I think that indeed, young sir. Yet I would not have it noticed—for I am convinced that someone in this town is telling dangerous tales.”

  “You may be right—”

  “I am,” said Arvid with calm authority. “We must meet—and we must meet quietly.”

  Mal sat forward. “Isn’t that the way to be noticed, sir, in this town?”

  Arvid glanced at him. “You would know, I expect.”

  Mal grinned broadly. “Oh yes . . . I would know. And if you’re speaking to our yeoman-marshal, I guess I’d like to be there.”

  “Mal!”

  “No offense, yeoman-marshal, but I’ve seen his sword-work, remember? You know I can keep quiet.”

  Arvid smiled the same charming smile at Mal. Paks noticed that Mal simply absorbed it, without changing expression—he looked very much like a stupid country lout. “That’s fine with me, sir. I am not intending assassination of your yeoman-marshal—or corruption, either—and you are welcome to watch me as closely as you wish.”

  * * *

  The Council meeting that evening was straightforward. Paks, seconded by Mal, gave her account of the attack. Sir Felis reported his interview with the captured robbers, and turned over a list of the captured arms and other valuables. Paks was asked why she had not entered and explored the keep, but the Council accepted her explanation without surprise or comment. Even the Master Stonemason seemed content. They argued a bit over the arms, and finally awarded her a third of their value. Hebbinford recommended that the black horse be given to her outright, and after some discussion it was done. No one mentioned the master-thief that Ambros, Arvid, and even Sir Felis believed to be still lurking in the ruins.