The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  “I agree,” said Mal. He had a large swelling bruise across his forehead. Paks realized that the axe-haft must have hit him on the face. “I don’t know as I can fight as good as most days.” Ambros looked at him in surprise, then concern. His voice seemed slurred.

  “Will your friend need to be carried?” asked Paks.

  The gnome bowed again, and gave Paks a small tight smile. “It is generous of the lady to think of that. If it is possible, he should not walk so far.”

  In the end, they came back to Brewersbridge that same evening, with the two gnomes alive and well, and clear evidence of the human trader’s death. Ambros and Mal hacked off the creature’s right hand and an ear as proof of what they’d found. The gnomes took rooms at The Jolly Potboy—they were well known enough that Hebbinford trusted their credit. Paks, her clothes still stained with blood, found Suli dogging her every step.

  “Did I—I mean, I couldn’t get through the hide, but did I do all right otherwise? I didn’t scream, or anything—”

  Paks felt tired. “No. You did fine, Suli—I said that—”

  “Yes, but—you are going back, aren’t you? You’ll let me come? And I can take your clothes, now, and get Sevri to wash them—”

  “No!” It came out harsher than she meant it, and Suli looked worried. Not frightened, Paks noticed, but worried.

  “But—”

  “Sevri has her own duties—she’s not a washing maid. I’ll do it; any soldier learns to keep her own gear clean.” Paks could see that this was not pleasant news to Suli. She nodded, remembering her own feelings during training. “I told you before, Suli—being a warrior’s not what you thought. Most of it is like this—cleaning gear, and keeping weapons in trim, and practice. If you don’t do it yourself, you can’t be sure it’s done right.”

  The girl nodded, and leaned against the wall, evidently planning to stay until she was tossed out.

  “Your own sword, for instance,” said Paks severely. “Have you inspected it yet? Is it clean? Have you taken care of any nicks or dents? It’s the grange’s sword—you should return it in perfect condition.”

  Suli reddened, and pulled it from the scabbard—sticky with drying blood and hair.

  “Go clean that,” said Paks. “When you’ve got all the blood off, then polish it, and clean the scabbard. If you leave all that muck in the scabbard, then—”

  “But how?” asked Suli. “It’s inside, and—”

  Paks took the scabbard and looked. Unlike hers, this was a simple wood casing, pegged in several places and glued along the edges. The upper end was notched for attachment to a belt.

  “You’re lucky. This is all wood. Take some wet grass or sedge—sedges are better—and tie them to a limber switch, and scrub inside with that. Then run clean water in and out of it. That should do. Set it in a cool place to dry—don’t put the sword back inside, or it’ll rust. If it smells clean tomorrow, you’re done. Otherwise you may have to take it apart.”

  “Seems a lot of trouble, just to get a bloodstain off,” grumbled Suli. Paks glared at her, sure now of her ground.

  “Trouble! You don’t know what trouble is, until you leave something to rot in your scabbard, and then nick yourself with dirty steel.” She remembered the surgeons talking about wound fever, and poisoned weapons. “It’s the way some tribes of orcs poison weapons, Suli. Store ‘em in rotting flesh and blood.” She was glad to see the girl turn green and turn to go without further argument. “Check with Ambros at the grange later this evening—you’ll need to pick up another scabbard, and he can tell you where and when to meet us.”

  “Yes, Paks,” said Suli, subdued.

  Paks had just finished cleaning up, with her wet clothes hanging behind the kitchen, and her wet hair still chilly on her head, when Hebbinford came to tell her the gnomes wanted a word with her.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Gird knows,” he said. “Being as it’s gnomes, it’s some trading matter, I’d say. Remember that they’re as full of pride as bees of sting—and as quick with it, too. They don’t like jokes, and they don’t like someone misjudging them on their size. Gnomes see everything as exchange—good for good, and blow for blow. They don’t do favors, but they’re perishing fair, if you can understand their idea of fair. And they never forget anything, to the ends of the world.”

  “Oh.” Paks hoped they would understand ordinary courtesy as courtesy.

  Both gnomes were seated before the fire in one of Hebbinford’s private rooms when Hebbinford announced her. One jumped up and bowed. Paks made a sketchy bow in return. She thought she could see a gleam of satisfaction in that flat dark eye.

  “Master Hebbinford if you would bring ale.” The gnome gestured to a chair, and Paks sat; he returned to his own seat. His speech lacked the pauses and music of human language; Paks found it hard to follow, even though the words were pronounced correctly. “Is it that you were hired for our rescue?”

  “No,” said Paks, “not exactly.”

  “Then this rescue was in hope of reward?”

  “No—what is it?”

  “That is what I try to find out. For what service were you hired, if not for our rescue?”

  Paks wondered how much she should say of the Brewersbridge Council’s affairs. “Sir—pardon, if I do not know the correct address—” He took her up at once.

  “Lady, it is our mistake. We thought you would not care to be precise. I am Master-trader Addo Verkinson Aldonfulk, sixth son of my father’s house: the polite address in Common would be Master-trader Addo Aldonfulk, or Master Addo if in haste. This my companion is journeyman-trader Ebo Gnaddison Gnarrinfulk, the fourth son of my father’s third sister: he should be styled Journeyman Ebo. And thine own naming?”

  “Master-trader Addo—” Paks got that far before losing track. The gnome nodded anyway.

  “That will do.”

  “—I am Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, of Three Firs—”

  “Three Firs is thy clan?”

  “No, Master-trader Addo; it is the place of my father’s dwelling.” Paks found her own speech becoming both stilted and formal.

  “Ah. We know that some humans have no clans.” He paused as Hebbinford himself returned with a large flagon of ale and three tankards. “Be welcome to ale as the guest of Aldonfulk, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter; no obligation is thine for partaking of this gift.”

  Paks stared, then caught her wits back. “I thank you, Master-trader Addo.” She took the tankard he offered, and sipped cautiously. “You asked of my employment, sir. The Council of Brewersbridge has, as you may know, a policy against idle swordsmen in the town.”

  The gnome nodded. “An excellent policy. Human towns are too lawless as it is and human vagabonds cause trouble. We allow no masterless humans in the gnome kingdoms.”

  Paks reddened, but went on. “Master-trader Addo, the Council examined me, and decided that I might stay some time, but they asked a favor.”

  “Favor! What is a favor?”

  She remembered Hebbinford’s warning. “Sir, my—my vows are to another; I am traveling from Aarenis to the far north.” That seemed safe enough. The gnome relaxed in his chair. “But they asked my aid in finding the hiding place of a band of robbers—the same who attacked you—and asked that I lead a force against them if I could find them.”

  “And what pay did they offer for this?”

  “Well—that I could stay longer than they would otherwise allow, and the use of a horse, and a share of goods recovered from the hideout, if there were any.”

  “Hmmph.” The gnome chattered in gnomish with his companion. Paks could not tell how old they were, or if the journeyman were younger than the master. They had earth-brown, unwrinkled faces, and thick dark hair. Addo turned back to Paks. “It seems little payment for an uncertain task. How many days were you bound to stay and work at it?”

  “No time was set. But I had money enough, and reason to dislike brigands.”

  “Hmm. And after our caravan was
taken did they say aught about rescue?”

  “No, Master-trader Addo. It was thought you had been killed with the others. One man escaped to tell of the attack. Many bodies were found.”

  “I see. Why then were you in the keep? To look for goods?”

  “No. The robbers we captured said that someone else took over the goods. Ambros, the yeoman-marshal, thinks it is a priest of Achrya. Arvid Semminson says the goods are being sold at a distance.”

  “And you did not expect to find us.”

  “No, sir. But we were glad to find any that had survived.”

  Another conversation in gnomish. Paks finished the ale in her tankard, and thought about pouring another. But she felt constrained to wait until it was offered. Finally Addo turned to her again.

  “If you did not come and search the keep would anyone else have come?”

  “No, Master-trader Addo. Most people around here think it is bad luck.”

  “Superstition. Luck is a fallacy of humans; things either are or are not. That creature who ate our companion—was it dangerous to armed men?”

  “Yes, sir. It was very large, and fought well; it took several of us to kill it.”

  “It is true you command this force?”

  Paks frowned. “I would not want to mislead you, sir. I was asked to command, and did command, the force which killed and captured the robbers themselves. Today’s foray was not entirely my idea—yeoman-marshal Ambros insisted that it must be made at once. But because I have experience, I was at the head of the party.”

  Addo shook his head. “Even among humans, one must take command, and be responsible for all—I ask again if that was you or another. If another who would it be?”

  “I—in that way, sir, you could say I commanded.” Paks thought it was not too great a boast—they had followed her orders, such as they were.

  “You are not boastful as many human fighters are,” he commented; she wondered if he could read her thoughts. “It is important to know who commands. It is this person the clans owe thanks to.” He took a ring off his finger, and reached out to her. “At this time we have been robbed; we have nothing. But this is in earnest of your just claim on Aldonfulk and Gnarrinfulk; it shall be redeemed fairly, on my word as Master-trader.” Paks took the ring; it was black, like iron, and heavy. She nodded, wondering what to say.

  “I thank you, Master-trader Addo Aldonfulk—and Journeyman Ebo.”

  “It is but right. You had no obligation; you had not been hired for this task. I ask your trust that this will be redeemed.”

  “Master-trader Addo, you have that trust. But I would free anyone from such captivity—”

  “Oh?”

  “It is right—”

  “You have an obligation to a god? Are you sworn to such deeds, then?” He looked almost as if he might ask for the ring back.

  “No, sir,” said Paks. “But I serve the gods of my father’s house, and they oppose evil.”

  “Umph. That is well, to stand with tradition. And such belief does not interfere with our owing. Keep the ring, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter. You returned our lives.”

  “It was my pleasure to do so.” Paks sat a moment; the gnomes were silent. “Would you,” she ventured, “be my guest for another flagon of ale? With—with no obligation?” Both gnomes nodded.

  “We would not willingly owe thee more,” said Addo, “but it is mannerly of thee to offer. We will be thy guests.”

  * * *

  Their brush with death had not discouraged Ambros at all. He insisted that they go again the next day. Mal grunted; he was purple from hairline to jaw where the axe-haft had caught him, and he breathed noisily.

  “I wouldn’t have said it before, yeoman-marshal, but I’m still head-thick from this, and I don’t trust my speed. A thick eye’s bad enough in daylight.”

  “Then you can stay,” said Ambros tartly. “I’ve other yeomen.”

  Mal sighed loudly. “By Gird’s arm, Ambros, I’m willing enough, but—”

  “Mal, I can’t wait. I can’t. Something bad is going on here—I have to deal with it.”

  “Ambros, we did well by scouting around before attacking the robbers,” said Paks. “Why not look for the place where the goods are moving out? That might be a better way in.” She was thinking of the tunnel at Rotengre.

  “No.” Ambros shook his head stubbornly. “It takes too long—let the priest think we were frightened back by that monster. It’s a door-guard, I imagine—”

  “Certainly so,” said Arvid.

  “Then, when he knows we’ve killed it but have gone away, he may be careless for a space. A short space, in which we must strike.”

  Arvid looked at him curiously. “Are you angry, yeoman-marshal, that I bade you stay back with the light?”

  “I was,” said Ambros frankly. “Then I realized that you had to have light to fight. This time we’ll let another carry the flint—and another be prepared to light candle or torch for us as it’s needed. Now—to plans.”

  * * *

  This time, the stench from the open door nearly turned Paks’s stomach. The dead creature already swarmed with vermin—in the light of the candles, a flurry of rats scuttered away, squeaking. Beyond, the open doorway gaped. Again, Paks and Arvid were in the lead. Ambros had found six yeomen to come with them, including Mal. Two of them carried lighted candles. Suli followed Paks closely.

  Beyond the empty doorway, a passage sloped downhill, its rough stone floor heavy with dust churned by many feet. Paks could see and hear nothing. She glanced at Arvid.

  “Let me lead,” he said quietly. “Stay close, but don’t pass me, and be ready to stop on my signal. It’s the very place for some trap.” He stepped forward. Paks waited until he was three paces ahead, and then followed. The passage went on for twenty paces—twenty more—then Arvid stopped. Paks caught his hand signal and froze in her tracks. Suli bumped her from behind. The others’ footsteps seemed loud. Then silence, as they all stood still. Arvid was touching the side walls lightly. He looked back at Paks, and gestured her forward—one step. She took it. He pointed at the floor. She could see nothing, until he pointed again. A slight ridge in the dust, a ripple she would never have noticed. Where the feet had passed it, she could see an edge of stone.

  “It’s the trigger,” he said softly. “If someone steps on that, then—” he pointed up. “That will fall.” In the dimness overhead, Paks could make out a dark slit, and shining points. “A portcullis. It probably makes a noise, as well. There should be a safety block on one side, though, if they carry heavy goods through here. Ah-h.” Paks could not see what he did, but a small block of stone suddenly slid out of the wall a handsbreadth. “That should do it. We might want to come out this way in a hurry. Meanwhile, make sure no one steps on the trigger stone.”

  Paks passed this information along, and everyone stepped carefully over the ridge. Arvid had gone on. He disarmed another such trap thirty paces farther on. “I expect,” he said quietly to Paks, “that both would close together, and open arrow-slits in the walls as well. But we shall hope not to find out.” After that, Paks kept her eyes roving on all sides, trying to spot traps—but she missed the next, after the passage turned and dipped steeply. Arvid halted at the top of the steepening ramp.

  “Now this,” he said, “may be a chute trap.”

  “What?”

  “If you step on the trigger of a chute trap,” he said, “it tips up and dumps you in someone’s pot—or prison cell. It’s the same. We’re meant to go on—but you don’t see footprints in that dust, do you?”

  “No—but it’s been disturbed—”

  “Umm. More like something’s been dragged on it. They may use it for the caravan goods—saves carrying. I’d rather arrive on my feet. We need another door.”

  Paks could see nothing but stone-walled passage. Arvid went over every stone with his long fingertips. The others fidgeted; Paks shushed them. Finally he tapped one section of wall and smiled. “This is the entrance. Th
e trouble is that I don’t know what’s on the other side. They may have a guard right there—in which case, we’re in trouble. It may be trapped to sound an alarm—I can’t tell. But I judge it’s a safer way down than that—” He nodded at the chute.

  “Well—we have to try something,” said Paks. “Can you tell which way it opens?”

  “No. I don’t think it will rotate, like an ordinary door. It should either come forward or sink in, and then slide sideways. I can’t tell which.” He looked at her, challenging. Paks was determined to figure it out for herself.

  “Well, then—you’re the one who can open it. I’ll cover you, on your left side. The rest of you move three paces back and stay flat against this wall—you won’t be hit by arrows, if there’s an archer, and you can see how it works. Shield the candles with your hands, in case of a strong draft. Anything else?” She looked at Arvid. He shook his head.

  “You’ve a feel for this, lady,” he said.

  She heard a click as he worked the mechanism. The stone before him sank back; faint light came through the gap. Soundlessly the stone slid to the left. Behind it was a landing; stairs went down to the left, where the light brightened, and up to the right. Across the landing was an alcove; four cross-bows hung from pegs. Paks moved quickly through the opening, and looked both ways. Nothing. She signed to Arvid, who nodded and motioned the others in. He did something to the touchstone lock, and murmured that he hoped he’d jammed it open. His eyes slid to the crossbows. Paks quickly cut their strings. The two quivers of bolts she simply took and tied to her belt.

  Down toward the light they crept, stair by stair. Halfway down, Paks could see that a passage led away ahead and another to the right. She motioned those behind her to the right-hand wall of the stair. Now she could see a door, closed, at the foot of the stairs to the left. Arvid stayed in the lead, one stair before her. At the foot, he stopped a long moment to scan the passage ahead and the foot of the stair itself. The forward passage ended in another closed door not twenty paces away, heavy wood bound with iron. Neither hinges nor bars showed on this side. The light they had seen came from torches in brackets on both sides of the passage: four ahead, and obviously more to the right. The flame-tips bent toward the left-hand door, and even on the stairs Paks could feel the draft that kept the air fresh.