“Yes,” she said quietly. “I am Paksenarrion.”
The redhead gave her a scornful look up and down. “You are just as Barra said. Well, and did you get our present?”
Paks raised an eyebrow. “If you mean a certain ring—”
“Don’t play games with me, paladin,” the woman sneered. “If you want to see him alive, follow me and keep your hands off your sword.” She turned away.
“Stop,” said Paks, not loudly but with power. The woman froze, then turned back to her, surprise in her eyes. “Before I go one step, I will have your word on this: is he alive? What of his squires?”
“They are all alive, Phelan and the squires, but they will die if you are not quick.”
“And I should follow so we can all be killed at once, is that it?” Paks forced humor into her tone, and again the woman’s eyes flashed surprise.
“No,” she said sulkily. “The Master would be glad to kill all of you—and will—but you can buy your lord some time, if you dare it.”
“And where do you go?”
“You would not know if I told you. There are places in Vérella that none but the Guild know, and places known only to few of the Guild.” She looked hard at Paks for a moment, and shook her head quickly. “I wonder—perhaps Barra has erred—”
“Is this Barra’s plot?” asked Paks. “Or Verrakai’s?”
“You ask too much. Come.” The woman turned away and walked off quickly. Paks followed, her heart pounding.
To her surprise, they did not enter the alley Paks had seen, but kept to the main streets until they were in the eastern end of Vérella. Then the woman turned into a narrower street, and another. Here was the sort of poverty Paks had seen in every city but Fin Panir and Chaya: crowded narrow houses overhanging filthy cobbles and frozen mud, ragged children huddled together for warmth, stinking effluvium from every doorway. She was aware of the curious glances that estimated her sword’s worth and the strength of her arm rather than a paladin’s honor. The redhead ducked into a narrow passage between two buildings, scarce wide enough for their shoulders. It angled around a broad chimney, and opened into a tiny court. Across that was a double door, painted black with red hinges. On this, the redhead rapped sharply with her dagger hilt; a shutter in the door scraped open.
Paks looked quickly around the open space. It was already draped in shadow, overlooked only by the blank rear walls of the buildings that ended here. Paks wondered at the windowless walls, then saw that there had been windows once—they were blocked up, some by brick and others by heavy shutters. She could hear the redheaded woman muttering at the door, and something small scuttling among the debris across the way. Aside from that, and the distant rumble of street noises, it was ominously quiet.
One leaf of the double doors opened, squealing on its hinges. “Come on,” said the woman sharply. Paks did not move.
“I want to see him.”
“Inside.”
“No. Here. Alive.” Paks called light, and it cast a cool white radiance over the grimy stones, the stinking litter along the walls. Several dark shapes fled squeaking into holes.
The woman turned back to the doorkeeper, and muttered again. Paks waited. The door slammed shut, and the woman turned back to her.
“I told you he was alive. You’re only making it worse.”
“On the contrary,” said Paks. “I do what is necessary.”
“Necessary!” The woman spat. “You’ll learn necessary soon enough.”
“That may be, but I will see him alive and well before then.”
“As the Master answers, you will see.” They waited in heavy silence for some minutes. When the doors opened, both sides gaping wide, two files of armed men emerged. The first were dressed in dark clothes, and carried short swords. Behind them came two priests of Liart, their hideous snouted helms casting weird shadows in Paks’s light. But for one being slightly taller, she could see no difference in them. The redhead bowed deeply. The two faced Paks; one of them raised a spiked club.
“Paladin of Gird, have you come to redeem your master?”
“He is not my master, but the rightful king of Lyonya, as you know.”
“But dear to you.”
“To bring him to his throne was laid on me for my quest,” said Paks. “He is no longer my lord, for I am Gird’s paladin.”
“But you are here because of him.”
“Because of Lyonya’s king, yes.”
“The Master of Torments desires otherwise.”
“The Master of Torments has already found that the High Lord prevails.”
A howl of rage answered that, and a bolt of blue light cast from the second priest. Paks laughed, tossing it aside with her hand. “See,” she said. “You have said that he lives, and that you have some bargain in mind—but I am not without power. State your terms, slaves of a bad master.”
“You will all die in torment—” began one, but the other hushed him and stepped forward.
“You killed our Master’s servants in Lyonya,” he said. “You killed them in Aarenis before that. The Master will have your blood for that blood, or take the blood of Lyonya’s king.”
“Death for life?” asked Paks.
“No.” The priest shook his head slowly. “Torment for it, paladin of Gird. Death is easy—one stroke severs all necks, and our Master knows you paladins expect a long feasting thereafter. You must buy the king of Lyonya’s freedom with the space of your own suffering. This night and day one will suffer as our Master demands—either Lyonya’s king, or you.”
“And then you will continue, and kill in the end.” Paks kept her voice steady with an effort.
“It may be so, though there is another who wants your death. Uncertainty is, indeed, an element of torment. But the terms are these: you must consent, and come unresisting to our altar, or Lyonya’s king will be maimed before another dawn, and will never take the throne.”
“Prove that he and his squires live.”
“His squires! What are they to you?”
“You would not know. Prove it.”
One of the priests withdrew. In a short time, the priest and more armed men appeared, bringing Phelan and the squires, all bound and disarmed. One man carried their weapons.
They gaped across the tiny yard at Paks’s light. Phelan’s face hardened as he saw her. Garris sagged between his guards, as if badly hurt. Suriya’s right arm was bandaged, and Lieth’s helmet sat askew above a scalp wound. Selfer limped.
“Paks. I had hoped you wouldn’t come to this trap.” Phelan’s voice barely carried across the court.
“Your ring worked as we hoped.” That was one of the priests.
“A paladin on quest, my lord, has little choice,” said Paks, ignoring the priest and meeting Phelan’s gaze.
“Now you see that we have what we claimed,” said the first priest. “Will you redeem him?”
“All of them,” said Paks. “The squires too.”
“Why the squires?”
“Why should any be left in your hands?” Paks took a long breath. “I will barter for the king, and these squires, on these grounds: one day and night for each—you to restore their arms, and let them go free for those days.”
“Paks, no!” Suriya leaned forward; her guards yanked her back.
“You have no power to bargain,” said the priest. “We can kill them now.”
“And you are beyond your protection,” said Paks, “and I am within mine. If you kill them, Liart’s scum, I will kill many of you—and your power here will fail. Perhaps I cannot save them—though you would be foolish to count on that—but I can kill you.”
“So.” The priests conferred a moment. “We will agree on these terms: one day and night for each—that is five you would redeem?”
“Have you more in your power?”
“No. Not at present. Five, then: five days and nights. We will restore their arms and free them when you are within.”
“No.” Paks shook her head. “Yo
u know the worth of a paladin’s word. I know the worth of yours. You will free them now, and on my oath they will not strike a blow against you—”
“Paks—”
“Be silent, Suriya. As it is my choice to redeem you, so you are bound by my oath in this. Take your weapons and return to the palace; guard your lord on his journey and say no more.” She looked from face to face. “All of you—do you understand?”
Phelan’s eyes glittered. “Paks, you must not. You don’t understand—”
“Pardon, my lord, but I do understand—perhaps more than you do. I am not your soldier now. I follow the High Lord, and Gird, the protector of the helpless, into whatever ways they call. Do not, I pray you, make this quest harder than it is.”
He bowed as much as he could. “Lady, it shall be as you say. But when I am king—”
“Then speak as the king’s honor demands,” said Paks, meeting his eyes steadily. She looked back at the priest. “You will not harry them for the days of the bargain.”
“We will not.”
“Then I take oath, by Gird and the High Lord, that when I see them safely freed and armed I will submit without battle to your mastery for five days and nights.”
“Unbind them,” said one of the priests.
“Wait,” said Paks. They paused. “I have one further demand. They shall carry away my own arms, that Gird’s armor be not fouled in your den.”
“I have no objection,” said the priest curtly. He nodded, and the guards untied the bonds. Garris slumped to the ground; Suriya and Selfer struggled to lift him. “Is he dead?” asked Paks.
“Not quite,” said Selfer grimly. Paks prayed, certain the Liartian priests would not let her touch Garris to heal him. She felt a drain on her strength, as the healing often seemed, and Garris managed to stand between the other two. Suriya looked at her, and nodded slowly. When they had all been given their weapons, Paks spoke again.
“Come here—near the entrance—and I will disarm.” Lieth and Phelan warded her as best they could while she took off her weapons and mail. She folded everything into a neat stack, covered with her cloak against curious eyes, and tucked her Gird’s medallion into it. Then she took off Phelan’s signet ring and handed it to him. “My lord, your ring. Take your royal sword, and keep it to your hand after this. Lieth, High Marshal Seklis will take my gear. My lord, you must go at once.”
“Paks—”
“Gird’s grace on you, sir king.” Paks bowed; Phelan nodded, and started up the passage with Lieth guarding the rear. She watched just long enough to see them around the chimney, then turned back to the others. They had not moved.
“It is astonishing,” said one priest, “that Girdsmen are so gullible.” Paks said nothing. “For all you know, that man may be a convert to our Master’s service.”
At that, Paks laughed. “You know better than that of paladins: if he were evil, I would know. I can read your heart well enough.”
“Good,” said the priest, his voice chilling. “Read it closely, paladin, and learn fear.” He nodded, and the swordsmen came forward on either side. “Remember your oath, fool: you swore to come without a battle.”
Paks felt her belly clench; for a moment fear shook her mind and body both. Then she steadied herself and faced them. “As I swore, so I will do; the High Lord and Gird his servant command me.”
The priests both laughed. “What a spectacle we can offer! It’s rare sport to have a paladin to play with—and one sworn to offer no resistance is rarer yet.”
Paks made no answer, and when the swordsmen surrounded her, stood quietly. None of them touched her for a moment, daunted by her light, but when the priests gave a sharp command they prodded her forward, across the yard and into the doorway. Once inside, the priests grabbed her and slammed her roughly against the wall of the passage. Her light had vanished. She felt their assault on her heart at the same time, but trusted that no evil could touch her so. Guards bound her arms behind her and her ankles with heavy thongs, drawing them cruelly tight. Then they dragged her down one passage and another, down steep stairs where every stair left its own bruise, along wide corridors and narrow ones, until she was nearly senseless.
That journey ended in a large chamber, torchlit, half-full of kneeling worshippers. The guards pulled Paks upright, supporting her between them so that she could see the size of the room and the equipment gathered on a platform at the near end. It was grim enough; Paks had seen such things before. She would never come out of here; she would die of it, and worse than that, she would be watched, taunted, ridiculed, as it happened. She tried to think of something else—anything else—and felt a nudge in her back, warm and soft, as if the red horse had pushed against her. When the priests confronted her, she knew her face showed nothing of her fear.
When they introduced her to the waiting crowd, she heard the reaction, the indrawn breath—half fear, half anticipation. A paladin—would the high gods intrude? But the priests reassured them: the fool had consented. Her gods would not interfere. Paks saw the gloating eyes, the moist-lipped mouths half-open. At the back, a dark woman who might have been Barra gave her a mocking grin. As the priests talked on, she saw more and more slip into the hall, drawn by rumor and held by delight. A sour taste came into her mouth; she swallowed against it, praying.
Unlike her ordeal in Kolobia, most of what happened in the next five days and nights remained clear in her mind.
They began predictably, by ripping her clothes off and scattering the pieces as the worshippers laughed and cheered at the priests’ urging. Paks stared over their heads at the back wall of the chamber. Then one priest handled her roughly all over, squeezing and pinching as if she were a draft horse up for sale. The second one began, slapping her face with his studded gloves, pinching her breasts sharply.
Now they called the worshippers forward, encouraging them all to feel and pry, slap and pinch. It was petty, but not less disturbing for that. The sheer enmity of it—the number of sneering faces, strangers to whom she had never done harm, who snickered and giggled as they ran their dirty fingers over her face, poked her ribs, felt between her thighs. She could not imagine being such a person, taking such pleasure. What could have made them what they were?
One youth reached up and yanked at her hair; that began a round of such antics. One would take a single hair and pull it out; others took a handful and pulled again and again. They pulled other hair, jeering when she flinched, and looking to the priests for approval. She felt the first blood trickle down her face; someone with a jeweled ring had scraped it deliberately across her forehead. But the priests stopped him.
“Not yet,” one of them said. “The Master has plenty of time for this one, slave, and more skill than you know. Draw no blood, slaves, at this time—be obedient, or suffer his punishment.” The man in front of Paks paled, trying to hide his bloodstained ring. The priest laughed. “Do you think to hide from the Master, fool? Yet you share our vision: you are only hasty. You will taste her blood later—be obedient.” He confronted Paks, pushing the spiked visor of his helm into her face. “And you, little paladin? Do you fear yet? Do you begin to regret your bargain?”
“No.” To her surprise, her voice was steadier than her limbs. “I do not regret following the commands of my lord.”
“Then we will instruct you,” he said, and made a sign to the guards. “You have seen the punishments in Phelan’s army. See how you like ours.” As he spoke, the guards forced her back over a small waist-high block, looping her wrist bonds through a hook on the floor of the platform. One of them leaned a fist on her chest, and two others pulled her knees down and apart. Paks felt her back muscles straining. The priest who had been speaking slapped her taut belly and laughed again. “It bothered you when our servants pulled your hair? Then we will ease you this far, paladin: you will have no hair to be pulled. You know the term tinisi turin?” The crowd laughed obediently and the second priest came toward her with a razor. “It may not be as sharp as you would like,” he
began, “But it has certain—advantages—for our way—of doing things.” As he spoke, he yanked on her braid and sliced roughly at her thick hair. In a moment or two, it fell free; Paks could feel the ragged ends stirring, the cool air on her scalp. He walked away. When he came back, two assistants were bringing with him the little brazier she had seen, and the razor he held was glowing hot. “It cuts well this way,” he said, laying it lightly along her ribs. Paks tried not to flinch. But by the time he had shaved her head and the rest of her body hair, leaving raw burned patches that the chill air rasped, she was shaking. The watching crowd talked and laughed, like people watching a juggler at a village fair. The priest watching her nodded.
“You will learn despair, little paladin; even now you are finding what you did not expect. And now we will brand you with Liart’s mark, that you feel in your own flesh his Mastery.” One of them seized her ears, bracing her head, and the hot iron came down, its horned circle held before her eyes a moment before it pressed her forehead. For an instant it felt cold, as it hissed, then searing pain bored through her head. Tears burst from her eyes; she choked back a scream. The priest laughed. “Now you are Liart’s. You may stay there, while we attend to other matters that need the Master’s touch.”
Paks could see nothing of what happened next; she fought to keep control of her own reactions. She heard a name called, and someone cried out in the crowd. A flurry—a frightened voice, a boy’s voice, and another one pleading, a man’s voice, older. The priest made some accusation; Paks did not attend to the words, but the tone came through. Then the boy’s voice again, frightened and rising to a scream of pain. She heard blows—a whip, she thought—and more screams, then the man’s voice sobbing. Then the priest—cold, arrogant, demanding, and the man’s voice again, in submission. The priest returned to her, and grabbed her by both ears, holding up her head so that she could see the child who hung from his wrists, bloodstreaked.
“See? If we treat children so, think how much worse it will be for you.”
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 146
