“Hmmm. I used to wonder how the paladins of Gird could be considered protectors of the helpless when they had never been helpless. Rather like asking the hawk to feel empathy for the grouse, or the wolf for the sheep. Even if a tamed wolf makes a good sheepdog, he will never understand how the sheep feel. You, Paksenarrion: you are most fortunate. For having been, as you thought, a coward, and helpless to fight—you know what that is like. You know what bitterness that feeling breeds—you know in your own heart what kind of evil it brings. And so you are most fit to fight it where it occurs. Or so I believe.”
Paks stared at the finger that had held light. She wanted to argue that it could not be true—she had been too badly hurt—she had too much to overcome. But far inside she felt a tremulous power, a ripple of laughter and joy, that she had not felt before. It was much like the joy she remembered, yet greater, as the light of her finger had been greater than candlelight.
Chapter Seven
The road north from Vérella seemed vaguely familiar, even after three years. Paks stayed most nights in village inns; the fall nights were cold. She made good speed during the days, but did not hurry.
As she came over the last hill before Duke’s East, a cold thin rain began to sift down through the trees, dulling the brilliance of their changing leaves. Paks grinned to herself: so much for her imagination. She’d hoped to arrive at Kolya’s looking fairly respectable. She unslung her bow, and put the bowstring in her belt pouch to keep it dry. At least she wouldn’t have to stay on the road if it got muddy, as she had in the Company. She pulled the hood of her cloak well over her face and trudged on. It grew colder. She had to blink the rain off her eyelashes every few minutes. At least it was downhill, she told herself. The rain came down harder. The slope levelled out, and Paks began to look for the village ahead. There. There on the right was the stone cottage with apple trees around it, Kolya’s place, and there ahead was the bridge, with the mill upstream.
Paks looked at her muddy boots and wet cloak, and decided to go on to the inn. Kolya wasn’t expecting her—might not recognize her—Paks turned away from the gate and went on. Under the bridge the water ran rough and brown. They must have had rain up in the hills, she thought. The stones of the bridge were bluer than she remembered.
Although it was still daylight, few people were in the street. Light glowed behind curtained windows. Paks turned left out of the market square, toward the inn. It loomed ahead, and she hurried toward it, thinking of warm fires and a hot meal. The inn door was closed tight against the wind and rain, but swung easily when she pushed it. Paks slipped through and closed it behind her. The common room was bright with lamps and the fire on the hearth. Her wet cloak steamed. She blinked the rain out of her eyes as she pushed back her hood.
“Well, traveler, may I help you?” The wiry innkeeper looked just as he had the year she left. Then she had been an awed recruit, wondering if she would ever go there casually, as the veterans did.
“Yes,” said Paks. “I’d like a meal and a bath—”
“A room for tonight, as well?”
“I’m not sure.” Paks shrugged out of her pack and cloak.
“It’s late to be starting out again in this weather—” He stopped suddenly, and Paks saw he was looking at the black signet ring on her right hand. He looked up, frowning. “You’re one of the Duke’s—?”
Paks nodded. “I was with the Company. The Duke gave me this, the last time I saw him, and said to come if—when I had—finished something.”
The innkeeper’s eyes were shrewd. “I see. And you were planning to make his stronghold by tonight, eh?”
“No. Actually, I planned to visit a friend here in town first. Kolya Ministiera.”
“Kolya! A friend of yours—might I ask your name?”
“Of course. Paksenarrion.” She could not interpret the look on his face, and did not care to try. They would all have heard some story or other. She busied herself with the fastening of her pack. “I was in Arcolin’s cohort.”
“Yes. I’ve—heard somewhat—” He looked hard at her a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was brisker. “Well, then. Food and a bath—which would you first?”
“Bath,” said Paks. “I’ve clean clothes in here, but I’m mud to the knees. And do you have anyone I could send with a message to Kolya?”
“My grandson will go. Do you wish writing materials?”
“No. Just ask him to tell her that I’m here, and would be glad to see her again.”
“Very well. Come this way, and I’ll arrange your bath.”
A short time later, Paksenarrion was scrubbing the trail grime off with a linen towel, hot water, and the scrap end of scented soap she’d bought in Vérella. When she was done, she poured the rest of the hot water over herself, then dried in front of the little fire in the bathing chamber. She’d hung her clean clothes near the fire to take the chill from them. They felt soft and warm when she put them on. She counted the coins in her purse and decided that she could afford a good dinner. When she came back down the passage to the common room, she felt ready to face anyone. The big room was empty, but for a serving girl. Paks chose a table near the fire, leaning her bow against the wall. The girl came to her at once.
“Master said would you want a private room to eat in?”
“No,” said Paks. “This will be fine. What do you have?”
“Roast mutton or beef, redroots, white cheese or yellow, mushrooms with gravy, barley pudding, meat pasties, pies—”
“Enough,” said Paks, laughing. “Let’s see—how about roast mutton and gravy, barley, mushrooms, and—do you have soup?”
The girl nodded, “We always have soup. If you’re cold, I can bring mulled cider, too.”
“Good. I’d like that.” The girl left the room, and Paks pushed the bench closer to the wall so that she could lean against it. She stretched out her legs to the fire. The fire murmured to itself, occasionally snapping a retort to some hissed comment. She could hear the rain fingering the shutters, and the red curtains on the windows moved uneasily, but by the fire she was warm and felt no draft. She wondered what Kolya would say to her message. What had Kolya heard? Her eyes sagged shut, and she slipped a bit on the wall. She jerked awake and yawned. This was no time to go to sleep. She ought to be thinking what to say to Kolya, and to the Duke.
The door opened, letting in a gust of cold wet air and a tall figure in a long wet cloak. Paks thought at first it might be Kolya, but as the woman came into the light, Paks saw that she was younger, and certainly had both arms. A man came in behind her. The woman threw back the hood of her cloak to reveal red-gold hair, stylishly dressed. Under her cloak she wore a simply cut gown of dark green velvet, and when she drew off her gloves, she wore rings on both hands. Her companion, who seemed vaguely familiar to Paks, wore black tunic and trousers, and tall riding boots. Paks wondered who they were—they belonged in some city like Vérella, not up here. Before she thought about it, she had turned the Duke’s ring round on her finger so that only the band was visible. The serving girl had appeared as the door closed, and led the pair at once down a passage toward the interior of the inn. They must be known, then, thought Paks. She felt uneasy as they crossed the common room to the passage, but they did not seem to look at her.
“Here you are,” said the innkeeper, breaking into her thoughts. The platter of food steamed, and smelled good. “And Councilor Ministiera sent you a message—she’s in a meeting right now, but would be pleased to have you stay with her. She’ll come here when she’s through with the meeting.” Paks thought that Kolya’s invitation impressed him. “This room is often crowded from suppertime on, and noisy—if you’d prefer a quieter place to wait, I have several rooms.” Paks thought about it, and decided she would rather not see Stammel just yet.
“Yes—thank you. I think I will. But I’ll finish supper first—no need to move this.” She gestured at the platter and bowls. He smiled and left her. The mutton was tender and tasty; the soup warmed her to the toes. By t
he time she had finished, several townsmen had come in and ordered meals, staring at her curiously. She signalled the serving girl, and asked directions to the jacks and the private rooms.
“Right along here,” said the girl. “And master said you were to have this room—” she pointed to a door, “when you were ready.” Paks opened the door to find a pleasant little room with a fire already burning on the small hearth. Three chairs and a small round table furnished it, with a bench along one wall. The girl lighted the candles that stood in sconces on either side of the mantel. “Will you be wanting something from the kitchen?”
“No, not now. Probably when Kolya comes.” Paks tried to compute the probable cost of the meal, bath, and private room. But she wouldn’t be paying for a room tonight, and she had enough.
When she came back from the jacks, she settled into one of the chairs by the fire, and took her bow across her knees. She inspected it as she’d been taught, and rubbed it lightly with oil until it gleamed. She took the bowstring from her pouch and slipped it on, then bent the bow to string it. It was as supple and responsive as ever in her hands. She unstrung it and set it against the wall.
Her hand found her dagger, and then she was standing, staring at the door. She shook her head and sat down. Silly. Here, of all places, alone in a room in the Duke’s realm, nothing could menace her. She turned his ring again, looking at the seal in the black stone. It must be simple nervousness—fear of what Kolya had heard, or what she might say. Paks realized her dagger lay unsheathed in her hand. She stared at the blade, and felt the edge with her thumb. Sharp enough, and smooth. She slid it back in its sheath and stood again, pacing the length of the little room.
At the far end, away from the fire, she could just hear the murmur of other voices. It could not be coming from the common room, she recalled—it must be from another private room on this passage. She stared at the wall, her sense of something wrong growing, then turned back to the fire. She pulled her chair to face it, and found she could not turn her back on the far wall. She could not sit still; her earlier sleepiness was gone. Nothing like this had happened on the journey north, and she was still fighting with herself, a little angry, when a knock came on her own door.
“Yes?” The door opened, and the innkeeper glanced in.
“Councilor Ministiera,” he said, and stepped aside. Kolya appeared in the door as Paks stood up. The gray streak in her hair had widened, but otherwise she seemed the same. Her strong dark face was split with a broad grin.
“Paks! You brought more rain with you.” She gave Paks a long, considering look.
“Come on in. Don’t you want some ale? Or cider?”
“Ale,” said Kolya. “I get all the apples I want at home.” She entered and sat in one of the chairs, while Paks spoke to the innkeeper about ale. She cocked her head up at Paks. “You will stay with me tonight, won’t you?” Paks nodded. “Good. You’re looking well. The Duke will be pleased to see you. We heard several things—” She paused, and gave Paks another long look.
But Paks had been ready for this reaction. She smiled. “No doubt. There have been several things to hear. I have a message for you, Kolya, from Master Oakhallow—” She turned and rummaged in her pack until she found the scroll in its oilskin wrapping, and the little oiled pouch that she had never opened.
“Thank you.” Kolya started to speak, but paused as the innkeeper brought their ale, and left. “He sends me seeds and cuttings—did you know he helped me start my orchard, after I lost the arm?”
“No.” Paks was surprised; she knew only that Kolya was kuakgannir. She had not known even that until the Kuakgan gave her his message to take.
“Yes. He knew me, before I joined the Company.”
“Are you from Brewersbridge?”
“No.” Kolya did not explain. She was looking at the scroll, which she’d unwrapped. She looked up. “Well, I see that some of the tales we’ve heard cannot be true.”
“Ummm.” Paks poured the ale into both mugs. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, Kolya. Some things are true that I wish were not. But now—”
“Now you’re a warrior again—aren’t you?” Kolya picked up one mug and sipped. “As the Duke said you would have been without the Girdsmen’s interference.”
“I am a warrior, yes.” Paks wondered how much to tell her, and how soon. Seeing Kolya again, she realized how much older the other woman was, how young she might appear. “What happened was not the fault of the Girdsmen,” she began.
Kolya snorted. “The Duke thinks so. You’re not going to tell me you—” She stopped, obviously looking for a tactful way to say it.
“I am telling you that they did what they knew how to do. The Kuakgan knew more—of some things.”
“Are you kuakgannir now?”
“No.” Paks did not know how to explain.
“Still of Gird’s fellowship?” Doubt lay behind that.
“No—well, in a way—it’s difficult to explain—”
“But how do you feel, now? You can fight again?”
“Yes. I feel fine. I spent the summer with the rangers in Lyonya; we saw some fighting there.”
“You’re not wearing a sword,” said Kolya.
“No, that’s true. I used a borrowed one there; I haven’t the money to buy my own. But they said they’d keep my arms in Fin Panir. Even if they haven’t, I expect they’d give me a sword when they got over the shock.”
“Shock?”
“Well—they didn’t expect me to recover like this.”
“Oh. But the Duke said they gave you money . . . what happened?”
“It’s a long tale—the short end is it’s gone.”
Kolya nodded. “When are you going back to Fin Panir?”
“I don’t know.” Paks felt the uneasy restlessness she’d struggled with before Kolya came. “I wanted to come here first; to see you, to thank the Duke for all his help. I thought perhaps I could do something for him—I don’t know.”
Kolya drained her mug. “You could join the Company again, if that’s what you want. I know he’d take you. Or are you still set on being a paladin?”
Paks shifted the mug in her hands. “I have no choice, Kolya—or you could say I’ve already made it.” She finished her ale, and set the mug down. “I—don’t want to talk about it here. Can we go?”
Kolya stared at her in surprise. “Paks, it’s safe here. Piter’s the Duke’s man as much as I am. He tells no tales.”
Paks stood up. “I don’t doubt you, or him, but something—Kolya, I cannot explain this here and now, but I must not ignore these warnings.” She stepped to the door, opened it, and glanced into the passage. Nothing. “I’ll go pay the reckoning.”
“I’ll come.” Kolya stood, and Paks collected her bow and pack. She slipped the bowstring off the bow again and rolled it in her pouch. Then she led the way down the passage to the common room.
It was noisy and crowded there now, and it took a moment to catch the innkeeper’s eye. He came to them, and greeted Kolya, then asked Paks what more she needed.
“Just the reckoning,” said Paks. “Your hospitality has been more than generous.”
He looked at her, then at Kolya. “There’s—there’s naught to pay, this time.”
Paks turned to Kolya, whose face was blank. “What? You can’t mean that, sir. I’ve had a fine meal, good cider and ale, bath, a private room—”
The innkeeper looked stubborn. “No. You carry the Duke’s seal. One time for each of the Company—I’ve been a soldier; I know what need is.”
Paks felt herself blushing. “Sir, I thank you. But another time, I might have need. This time I have the means to pay.”
“You aren’t carrying a sword. No, if you come back someday, with all your gear, and want to pay, that’s fine. But not a copper will I take this night, and that’s final.” He glared at her.
“Well—my thanks, then. And I hope to enjoy your brew many a cold evening.” Paks and Kolya went out into the cold windy n
ight. The rain had stopped, though the wind smelled wet. They said nothing for some distance, but as they turned into the market square, Paks asked, “What was that about?”
“What?”
“Not paying. Does he really give a free meal to each of the Duke’s men? I wouldn’t think he could make a living that way.”
“Paks—wait until we reach the house.” In a few minutes they had crossed the bridge, and neared Kolya’s gate. Kolya led the way up the flagged walk to the cottage, and pushed open the heavy door. Inside, a fire on the hearth lit the front room dimly. Kolya poked a splinter into the fire until the end flared, and lit candles in sconces around the room.
“If you need to dry anything, here’s a rack,” she said, pulling a wooden frame from one corner. Paks dug into her pack for her wet clothes, and spread them on it, glancing around the room. It served as both kitchen and living room, with cooking hooks in the fireplace, a dresser holding plates, mugs, and two blue glasses, a net of cheeses, one of onions, and a ham hanging from beams, a sturdy table and several chairs near the fireplace. The other end of the room held a desk and stool, and more chairs around a striped rug on the floor. Under the front windows was a long bench covered with bright weavings. Kolya disappeared through a door beside the fireplace, and returned with a deep bowl of apples and a small one of nuts.
“You may be tired of apples, but these look good,” said Paks.
“They are. This is the first year I’ve gotten much from these two trees. The green and red striped ones are from Lyonya: Master Oakhallow sent the seedlings years ago. The dark ones are a new strain, according to the traders—at least it was new when I bought some. These trees are—oh—about nine years old by now. What I sent you, in the south, were Royal-garths—what they grow in the king’s groves in Pargun. They travel well, and are sweet, but these are better—thinner skinned.” It was clear that Kolya was glad to talk of something harmless. Paks fell in with this.
“How many kinds of apples do you grow?”
“As many as I can acquire. Apples do better if you mix varieties, and some tend to skip years in bearing. Right now I’ve got seven that are bearing well: these two, the Royalgarths, the Westnuts from Fintha, Big Ciders and Little Ciders, and Westland Greens. I’ve got two kinds that just started bearing this year, but not heavily: another summer apple, but yellow instead of green, and a big red and yellow stripe that does well in the markets south of here. And the pears have come in since you left. Over twenty bushels of pears this year.”
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 113
